Crossed Apocalypse

The first rays of morning sun pierce through the dusty windows of the nearly empty diner, casting long shadows across the Formica tables. The jukebox in the corner crackles to life, a needle dropping onto an old record. Chuck Berry's voice croons out, "It's a sunny day, but I've got the blues..."

You sit in a booth near the front window, nursing a cup of bitter coffee. Across the street, a line of cars snakes down the highway, engines idling as desperate people flee the cities. Panic has set in, rumors swirling about some kind of outbreak, but no one knows the truth.

The waitress, a plump woman in her 50s with tired eyes, refills your cup. Her name tag reads "Flo". She leans in close, lowering her voice. "I heard on the radio this mornin'... the military's set up a quarantine zone up north, 'round Fort Riley. Might be our best shot."

You glance at the door as a young couple stumbles in, blood spattered on their clothes and panic etched on their faces. The man clutches a rifle to his chest. The woman cradles her belly, a dark stain spreading across the front of her shirt.

Suddenly, a sharp bang rings out as the diner's front door slams open. A completely naked wild-eyed man sprints in, followed by three others. They move erratically, piling into the diner with mouths stretched wide into manic grins. Livid red rashes, cross-shaped mar their faces.

The man locks eyes with the young pregnant woman, gripping himself as he lets loose a foul stream of sexual threats as his companions lunge toward those nearby with bloody chains, knives and improvised weapons.

The cafe explodes into pandemonium, everyone screaming and running every which way as more ragged forms pour into the diner.