Jeannie

'An unknown virus linked to a factory in Colorado has now spread to fifteen states. Those in perfect health are appearing in emergency rooms across the country, overwhelming hospital staff and doctors with symptoms of sudden fever and seizures. There have been several cases reported of the patients flat-lining for several minutes before reviving and attacking their health care providers and loved ones.'

'Anyone displaying symptoms of sudden fever or seizures should seek help immediately and undergo quarantine.'

'Tropical Tidings Incorporated has issued a mass recall on its off-brand soap, citing a contaminated batch...'

Jeannie shut off the TV with a snort and tossed her remote on the couch. A generic soap virus? Taylor would get a kick out of that. Next, there would be a radioactive chemical in the product, and the world would exhibit the superpower of being smelly or clean, depending on their preference.

A few years ago, there had been that drug fad for bath salts, and some man had gone into a cannibalistic frenzy, taking off someone's face in an alley. The synthetic cathinone had other side effects, but everyone had freaked out, convinced the zombie apocalypse was upon them.

Then there was that ridiculous Tide Pod challenge that overtook YouTube, sending equally stupid kids to the ER after ingesting them.

This was no different. Unless these people were eating the soap, there was no reason for them to be sick.

She could imagine laughing with Taylor over it. He frequently accompanied her to Bath & Bodyworks to sample the seasonal scents, and they'd spend hours spritzing body spray onto the test strips or testing the lotion samples. Monica was usually too busy to go, and Taylor had the nose of a bloodhound when it involved expensive bath soap. As silly as it was, he'd had a falling out with Monica over her buying him an off-brand product, but Jeannie couldn't completely blame him. If someone bought her something that gross, she'd be pissed too — just not enough to kick them out.

Jeannie padded across her cramped living room and took a seat at the small bar connected to her kitchen. The apartment wasn't much bigger than a shoebox, but it was efficient. Though not as costly as some places, rent in Phoenix and its sub-cities was still expensive. As long as there was a dishwasher and laundry room, she was happy.

She picked up her steaming mug of coffee and inhaled, allowing its heavenly hazelnut aroma to wake her up. There was something soothing about the smell of coffee—when properly prepared, she could savor it before it reached her tongue. It was like wine tasting, but of a non-alcoholic variety and much better. She needed at least two cups to start her day.

Most people hated Mondays, but for her, it was Tuesdays that sucked. Mondays were always busy and made the day go faster. Tuesdays were the spillover days with extra helpings of overall bitchiness. It was as if the world was severely PMSing, determined to share its misery with her. When Wednesdays came around, she'd sigh in relief that she'd survived the previous day.

Her phone buzzed, vibrating against the countertop beside her. She opened the screen to check the first message, pausing when several incoming messages flooded her notifications, one after another.

"The heck?"

She set down her cup and tapped the first message, giving up on silencing her notifications as they continued to pour in. The first was from her office, where she worked as a primary care physician.

'Jeannie, we're opening early. There are a lot of sick people lined up at the door. We need you here ASAP.'

She shook her head and moved on to the next notification. The receptionist was dramatic any time there was a line longer than two people, forcing her to put down her phone. Jeannie wondered more than once who she was sleeping with to maintain her job. That woman couldn't handle the most basic task, and that was even if she only focused on one.

The next one was similar, also from her office. This time it was from her P.A. 'I know you're working this afternoon, but we don't have enough doctors to handle everyone. The office is packed and we're sending anyone home who isn't puking their guts out.'

Okay...her P.A. wasn't so dramatic. She wasn't someone to spill deep secrets to, but she was at least competent.

The third text came from her boyfriend. 'Jean Bean, are you okay??? People are throwing up and collapsing here at the bank. I'm coming over, but whatever you do, DON'T GO OUTSIDE.'

The last was from Monica. 'Jeannie, something's not right. I'm used to seeing sick people, but I've never seen anything like this. I'm afraid to open the pharmacy.'

As swiftly as the messages came, they stopped. Every single text was similar in tone—people stating the obvious or asking her for help because she was a doctor, assuming she had the answer to everything going on with their bodies.

They might as well ask her for the answer to the universe while they were at it.

If anyone knew anything, it'd be Jeannie's mother, Regina. They didn't have the best relationship, but that woman clung to the news like flies on...well, yeah. Regina was aware of the world's catastrophes, even if she wasn't aware of people around her.

Jeannie shook off the mental image of flies on feces and opened the call, only to get a busy signal. She tried her sister next, but couldn't get through to her either. Unable to leave a message, all she could hear was the rapid, high-pitched beep, beep, beep, beep, beep!

What was going on?

An ear-splitting scream pierced through the wall next door. It wasn't the argumentative shrieking she'd had to drown out with her TV more than once or the disgusting, loud make-up sex that almost always followed. This was unadulterated, holy shit, I'm about to die, terror.

The hysterical screaming continued as footsteps pounded with the grace of an elephant and things hit the wall with a thump. The volume and intensity increased as her neighbor opened her door, begging for help. Her front door shook so loud and hard, Jeannie jumped in her seat, knocking over her glass with her elbow and sending the mug crashing to the floor. Shattered glass embedded itself in her ankle while scalding hot coffee splashed the top of her foot, leaving an angry red welt in its wake.

Jeannie wiped off the hot beverage with a hiss, freezing when her neighbor screamed through hoarse, broken sobs. "Open the door! Please! Oh my god, he's going to kill—AGHHHHHHHHHHH-"

Halfway through the frantic banging, her neighbor's scream abruptly ceased with what sounded like a gurgle. Something thumped against the door, squelching against the surface like something out of a slasher movie.

Then there was silence.

Jeannie's heart pounded against her ribs, threatening to break a bone if it beat any harder. She knew she should check on her neighbor, dial 911, or something, but she was too paralyzed to move, forgetting about the glass lodged into her skin. Her breath coming in shuddering gasps and her eyes glued to the door, she bumped into the counter as she stepped backward on trembling legs.

Had she been living next to a serial killer this entire time? Why was her neighbor being murdered in broad daylight? Oh god, what if she was next?

Her hand shook as she picked up the phone and tried the emergency number, receiving another busy signal.

"Shit!"

A bang with enough force to rival an earthquake followed her curse, shaking the walls and sending pictures shattering on the floor.

Jeannie suddenly wished she wasn't against guns and Eric teaching her to use one. Something like that would come in handy right about now, especially when the next blow rattled the door. Wood splintered from the white frame and the hinges bent from the pressure.

Jeannie shivered, crossing herself for what was coming next. She was about to die, and somehow, she didn't think it would be swift or painless.

She slipped off the barstool and stumbled, unable to make her quivering legs obey. If she didn't hurry, the door would fly off its hinges.

A third bang cracked the frame in half, giving her no time to barricade herself in. What she needed was a weapon—something, anything, to defend herself with.

Pulling herself together, she darted around the bar and yanked a boning knife from the rack. If this bad boy could slice through a chicken, it could certainly deal considerable damage to a person. She only prayed her self-defense classes would come in handy. Just in case, though, she reached for a cast-iron skillet that probably weighed more than she did. She wasn't taking any chances.

The door came off its hinges with the next blast, slamming against the wall like a battering ram against a castle gate.

Jeannie dropped into a crouch behind the counter, hoping her psycho killer hadn't seen her. Hot urine dribbled down her legs and she held her breath as tears splashed down her cheeks. Of all the ways to die, she never imagined it'd end this way. She was supposed to get married, have a family and a pet, and earn six figures. She had her entire life ahead of her and now it was being ripped away from her.

Glass from the picture frames crunched beneath heavy feet as her attacker stepped inside. The odor that followed was unlike anything Jeannie had ever encountered, and it took every bit of willpower not to vomit. It was as if her neighbor hadn't bathed in ten years, rolled around in rotten food, and defecated himself.

It didn't help that it was also late summer, and the temperature was still well into the hundreds. Walking outside in Phoenix was like opening an oven and having heat blast into your face. Combined with the smell of what definitely wasn't freshly baked cookies, Jeannie thought she might die from that alone.

A deep groan escaped the intruder's lips and Jeannie was almost certain he sniffed the air. What the actual hell? Did he like his smell that much? Or maybe her apartment was what clean smelled like.

The knife almost slipped, and she tightened her sweaty grip around the handle.

One step. Then another. He was so close, all he had to do was look over the bar and he'd see her in her pathetic little hiding place.

The constant sniffing reminded Jeannie of those bad horror movies Monica was so obsessed with. Or were they B-grade monster movies? Either way, the blonde was always the first to get cornered and die. The man growled again, chilling Jeannie's blood down to the marrow of her bones. His movements, the way he paused and smelled out his prey, was like a wild animal.

A cramp shot through Jeannie's calf from squatting for so long, and she bit her lip to keep from gasping. She bit a little too hard, drawing just enough blood to send the copper taste onto her tongue.

Her attacker sniffed loudly before releasing a guttural growl. When he crossed the kitchen threshold, Jeannie sprang to her feet with several shrieks in rapid succession. Whether she was hallucinating or living her worst nightmare, she couldn't deny the opaque film covering his eyes. Fresh, wet blood dripped down his dark stubble and into his beer-stained wife-beater shirt.

A row of crimson teeth with bits of flesh between the gaps flashed, and Jeannie plunged the boning knife into his chest with a nauseating squishy sound before he could bite her. Blood and spittle flying from his mouth as he roared, Jeannie screeched and tugged on the knife. Not only was it stuck, but she'd pissed off her attacker and drawn all of his hungry focus on her.

When he lunged, Jeannie jumped back, grasping her skillet in both hands before swinging it at his head like a baseball bat. Bones crunched against the metallic gong, and he fell in a heap at her feet. Dark blood pooled around his head and soaked the white tile all the way into the grout. The dent in his head transformed his face into a grotesque image, caved in from where the skillet connecting with his temple.

Her stomach churned with the weight of an anchor as a horrifying realization settled over her.

Oh, my God, I just killed someone.

Then the impossible happened: he moved.

Her mouth opened into a silent scream, and she bashed the skillet against his head again on reflex. She didn't stop hitting him until long after his body stilled, leaving the apartment in a horrifying silence. The tile cracked into several pieces as the skillet left her trembling hands, and a strangled laugh escaped her throat at the thought of what would piss off her landlord more: the cracked tile, the blood-stained floor, or the dead body.

There was no way a jury would convict her of murder, though. They couldn't, not when someone decided to go Walking Dead on her ass. He attacked her and her neighbor... Oh, god, that poor woman.

Jeannie wiggled her feet into a set of flip-flops and snatched her purse. She needed to get out and report her killer to the police. Then she needed to see if the man's girlfriend was still alive.

The front door hung by a thread, threatening to fall over at the slightest touch. She looked down at the remains of her neighbor, her long brown hair ripped from her skull and body shredded like tissue paper, strewn across the cement walkway.

Jeannie's head swam, and she threw up the contents of her stomach right there on her welcome mat.

Screw Tuesdays.