"And in the air there was that mysterious excitement that comes at the changing of the seasons."-F. Scott Fitzgerald [Quoted in Jeffrey Scarlett's Journal, September 2012]

Jeff drove home at midnight. He drove east on the interstate for twenty minutes and exited north to Malcom. All twelve of Malcom's squad cars ran down Main Street.


He turned on 24-hour news. The twenty largest cities in the United States had all had mysterious cases of erratic and vicious human behavior. Two-hundred cases in New York, alone. Schools were closed nationwide, but the Surgeon General called for calm—all cases were being flown to the Center for Disease Control in Washington, D.C, where the government would find a solution quickly.

Jeff lay in bed. His open window brought in air that was just slightly cooler than usual—a front was moving through. To Jeff, even the small change in temperature made him feel like it was time for a Homecoming football game. Coming from Chicago, it had taken Jeff some time to adjust to the fact that the leaves did not drop in Malcom. And that the temperature rarely dropped below 50.

The boost of adrenaline drifted through his stomach. He felt anticipatory. He could not sleep, so he watched more news. He feared for his family. His little brother Sam was so far away on the West Coast and too carefree to turn his attention on something this big. Images of his parents getting stuck inside their house and of his nephew escaping his sister's site clouded his thoughts.

He felt responsible for their wellbeing. But he remembered the wisdom he often told his patience, that before you can take care of others, you must care for yourself—"Just like giving assistance to others with the oxygen mask on an airplane."

He made some coffee downstairs. He returned upstairs to take one last shower, and filled the bathtub with emergency drinking water. He went to the cellar to unlock his gun case. He needed to be able access them in haste.