“Oh, yes. The poor, poor plight of slugs.”

“Very amusing. My point is, all of us, the slugs, we don’t come from your Earth.”

“No? Ha! So you’re not simply a talking slug but also a UFO conspiracy theorist!”

“Gabriel, we slugs come from above. We come from the sky. We are the protectors of humanity.”

Gabriel laughed again, but his laugh was forced. “You? You call yourselves the protectors of humanity?”

“Yes,” the slug replied calmly.

“And… what? Okay. Tell me. How exactly does a slug do any protecting when the only speed it’s capable of is slow?”

“Heh.” The slug wriggled its antennas. “Trust me, we don’t have to move slowly. We choose to.”

“Pardon me for being a bit dubious of that claim.”

“Oh, your doubts are completely understandable,” the slug said, its antennas springing out like bolts of electricity. “But really, we can move at any speed we like. See, you have to understand, these slimy bodies aren’t our original form. On the inside, we are actually incredible beings of pure light. But surprisingly, we’ve come to appreciate these strange, wriggling bodies. These bodies are wonderfully humble and low to the ground. They’re delightfully inconspicuous, so that we can watch over you without ever being suspected. We’ve chosen to stay in them in service of our master. We’ve—”

“Your master? Who’s that?”

“Our master? Oh, you mean the great Sky Amoeba, of course!”

“That’s enough,” Gabriel said, fists clenched, holding his temper at bay like a lit flame.

“Oh, come—”

“No!” Gabriel snapped. “I’ve heard enough. I know that you’re just some rogue piece of my subconscious causing mischief, and I don’t want to hear it.”

“But—”

“Get out. Now!” Gabriel jabbed a finger at the door.

The slug turned to look at the door, an action which made Gabriel feel even more ridiculous. How the hell was a slug supposed to walk out the door? The talking slug turned back toward Gabriel. It didn’t crawl away.

Fine. If it didn’t leave, he’d make it leave. Gabriel raised his fist. The shadow of his hand fell over the slug’s helpless little body. But the slug stood its ground. Gabriel glared at it.

“I care about you,” the slug said. “I’m here to help. I’m here to deliver a message. You can either listen, or you can run away. But I remember that strong-willed man inside you all too well. I still see the rugged genius who never runs away, even when the entire world seems against him. You’re not a coward. Are you?”

Gabriel held his fist in place. Was he?

“Are you?” the slug repeated.

Gabriel hesitated. “No.” He slumped and put his hand out on the table.

The slug crawled into his palm, its damp, wriggling little body tickling his skin.

“I still don’t believe you,” Gabriel said. “I still think you’re a hallucination of some kind.”

“I know.”

“So what’s this message you have for me? Tell me that much, at least.”

The slug turned its antennas down. “Gabriel, there’s a storm on the horizon.” The odd geniality that had been in the slug’s metallic voice was gone. Its tone had turned murky and foreboding. “Tomorrow. That’s when it starts, Gabriel. That’s when everything changes.”

“What happens tomorrow?” Gabriel asked.

“The Black Virus will begin here. Right here, tomorrow, at Bright New Day. And once the virus begins cutting its bloody path through humanity’s corpses, you will be the only one who can stop it.”

Gabriel shook his head. “The Black Virus? What the hell is that? Are you talking about the bubonic plague?”

“Tomorrow,” the slug repeated.

Gabriel put the slug back on the wall. He was done listening. The whole thing was too ridiculous for words. Yet, an uncomfortable feeling stuck in his mind like a hooked fish.

“I hope you’re ready.” The slug slithered up the wall and into a crevice in the cracked white ceiling.

Chapter 7:

Cadaver

The morning after Robbie Gore’s death, Gabriel tentatively sat up in bed, his aching, rusty bones creaking with the motion. He rested his heavy head in his hands and attempted to pick the cobwebs out of his brain. As far as he could tell, the room was happily slug-free.

“The Black Virus will begin here. Right here, tomorrow, at Bright New Day. And once the virus begins cutting its bloody path through humanity’s corpses, you will be the only one who can stop it. I hope you’re ready.”

A slug. A talking slug. For Christ’s sake, was he really sitting here, thinking about a talking slug?

The breakfast tray beside his bed held a cup of black coffee, a plate of lukewarm scrambled eggs that smelled heavily of olive oil, a glass of orange juice, and as usual, a small bowl of Corn Pops. They always gave him Corn Pops. When he’d told them that he liked Corn Pops, he certainly hadn’t meant that he wanted them every single day. Next to the cereal was a tiny plastic cup of pills.

According to the talking slug—hardly the most credible harbinger—the whole Black Virus business was supposed to start that day. But he couldn’t believe the words of a slithering little creature from his imagination.

He gulped down the pills and ate his breakfast. He tried to put the slug and its prophecy out of his mind as he dressed for the day.

About an hour later, he traversed the fluorescent-lit corridors of Bright New Day on an aimless, directionless walk, less for enjoyment and more for the purpose of preventing muscular atrophy in his legs. All the usual suspects were about: the Crooner sang his heart out, Bob Baker glared into the hallway, and Edna Foster wheeled back and forth, expressing dire misery to anyone who dared cross her path. As Gabriel approached, she tentatively reached out for him.

A gravelly, Brooklyn-accented voice blasted out like a siren. “Hi there!” Mickey Minkovsky, a cheery, bald-headed, glasses-wearing New York Jewish man, had gleefully grabbed Edna’s hand and spun his wheelchair around to face her. As Edna scowled, Mickey’s brown eyes lit up, and he grinned at her. He raised his other hand triumphantly.

Gabriel stood there shakily. The two of them were blocking the entire hallway.

“Wooohoo!” Mickey whooped.

Mickey was always merry and loud. He could often be seen clapping and joyously shouting out old Yiddish phrases or emitting ear-shattering whistles. Though primarily wheelchair-bound, he was a stocky, muscular man with arms like a wrestler. Once, in a fit of spasmodic joy, he’d shaken the hand of an LNA so aggressively that he’d accidentally broken her wrist. Mickey didn’t appear to remember that incident. It was one of many memories that Alzheimer’s had stolen from him.

“Hi there!” Mickey repeated. “It’s nice to meet you. My name’s Mickey, Mickey Minkovsky. Y’know, like Mickey Mouse!” Mickey squeezed Edna’s hand, enthusiastically shaking it up and down.

Edna glared at Gabriel as if blaming him for the situation. Gabriel considered helping her out, but he was worried that Mickey might then try to shake his hand, perhaps a bit more enthusiastically than his fragile bones could take.

With his free hand, Mickey clapped his knee and cackled. He gave a whooping shout as if he’d just scored a home run. “So,” Mickey said, “will you be my girlfriend?”