And to him.

Ziggy had come here guided by a little boy seeking consolation, running to his mommy. The shattered man squinted at this crying lady. A smiling young woman's ghostly image superimposed upon her haggard countenance. A wave of pent-up hostility frothed to the surface. He bellowed "Mime!" - garbled without a tongue - and reclaimed his most prized possession. Knocking the lady aside, he climbed to his feet in a victorious stance, the toy aloft.

Adele sat up gasping. She clapped jittery hands to her mouth. It couldn't be, it couldn't be! Strangled hysterical laughter spouted as she rose grinning with glee. Arms apart, she stepped to wrap her child in a hug. "No, I can't believe it! You're my son! My dear sweet boy!"

Ziggy whirled, eyes enraged. She had lost him! Allowed him to be taken, abducted by strangers! She had no right to call him her son! His jaw flapped. Beads of heartache glittered in his cold eyes. He couldn't explain the hurt he had borne inside for most of his days. His exterior wounds were nothing by comparison. He warded her off, features conflicted.

"I love you. I always have," she whispered.

Ziggy shook his head.

"I'm sorry." Fingers to her neck, eyes limpid pools of anguish, Adele stared into the face of the boy she had wanted more than anything to find. He was tall now, like his father. He had the shape of his mother's chin, her cheekbones and hair. And his father's sheepishly handsome smile; Zeke's blue-gray eyes. "We both loved you so much," she told their son. "You were ours and no-one else's."

Tears poured from Ziggy's eyes. His obstinate betrayed expression washed away and he resembled that little boy. It was the happiest day of his life.

Adele cried out with joy and submerged him in her arms. The man's height made no difference. He was still her child.

Ziggy's arms engulfed her, tentative, then forgiving. They hung on to each other as if they would never let go. What really connects us? Blood? Or something deeper? Something less tangible? Ziggy's muddled brain flowed like a river in search of a new path. Maybe it was who we touched in this life that counted, who we interacted with and made the world better for in grand or modest ways. Even if we ultimately failed them.

As a gathering army of mutants ringed the park, a cursed man vowed to defend a treasured lady with his final breath. The zombies barged forth in a frenzy and Ziggy valiantly countered them, kicking, circling, lashing in vain. There were too many. And then the flies descended. Their hum amplified. The itching beneath his skin magnified in response. His flesh swelled, and movements became sluggish. He was sweating tubs.

It occurred to him at the last that he was an incubator. The Fruit Flies planted eggs; their growth cycle must have accelerated. Maggots hatched and were consuming him, compelling him to attack others, to cannibalize and infect them.

When they reached his brain, Ziggy lost his mind. And his temper.

In horror, between billows of flies, Adele ogled her son bloating to impossible dimensions. His skin bubbled. Then he screamed, on and on. The creatures around him tumbled back as the man erupted in an unrestrained spate of head-bashing limb-breaking mania.

Her stomach and teeth clenched. The woman harbored no further hope. They were surrounded by a gruesome melee of fiends, and there was nothing she could do to protect her son. The time to do so was past. He strove to protect her now but it was futile. She swallowed. A rueful smile shaped her lips. At least they were together. At least they had that much.

Ziggy's flesh ruptured, sundering to jigsaw bits, and more flies emerged. Adele was jolted to the grass by a crowd of zombies pawing her.

"NOOOOOOOOO!!!" Her fingers coiled. She had located the knife. She had survived a cult of wicked freaks, endured losing her husband and only child, then found her child just long enough to lose him again! She might not win, make that would not win, but she was not going to die like some flimsy skittish female in the movies! Roaring, she stood up green eyes ablaze, nostrils flared, and commenced killing the dead. Who probably didn't feel anything, but it made her feel pretty darn good as zombies toppled with holes in their heads.

A knife was no match for the flies. The insects invaded cavities, clogged her nose, teemed to her lungs. Their clamor stifled dreadful cries. As the zombies joined in, she mercifully suffocated while myriad tiny and big mouths devoured her flesh.

It's hot. You're bathed in perspiration although it's early. Wearing goggles and a gas-mask, you venture outside into polluted air that is now black with flies. The world is deteriorating before your eyes, everywhere dark and humming, a drape of madness and mayhem like the final curtain on a play with a cast of fools. Where did they come from, this latest plague? It's lucky you're so paranoid, cloaked in a thin white hood, long sleeves, boots and slacks. An insect pinches your hand and you ball your fists, shoving them into pockets, but your ears are vulnerable within the hood. You didn't even know a Fruit Fly could bite! Your ears are on fire from pain. Perhaps they're another insect, some new species. You've never seen anything like them. You pull the hood tighter. A hand is exposed to their nicks, the rapacious nips. Is that blood? Upset, you cram the fist in its pocket, having skipped gloves due to the high temperature.

Hastening along a sidewalk, you notice a group of people approaching. It's apparent there is an oddness about them. Weaving, oafish, milling together yet not conversing. Maybe they're just weird. On second thought, you doubt it. They're weird but that isn't it. That isn't what makes you step from the curb and cross the street.

They might think the same about you for donning a gas-mask, but the style is catching on since the Global Government began blatantly poisoning the public. Fashion, however, is the last thing on your mind at the moment.

They're looking right at you. Groaning in a peculiar manner. Like they aren't human. Kind of bizarre. And they're crossing the street, diagonally, making a beeline toward you. Creepy! You speed up to maintain a cautious distance, glancing at them repeatedly. On closer inspection, they are extremely foul and mangy. You would definitely not care to meet them.

Well, it's inevitable at this pace. Time to run.

Briskly you scurry, aiming for a populated area. Unfortunately, the streets are vacant. Besides the bugs. Your goggles are getting steamed; you wipe them on your clothing, hands tucked into sleeves. The insects are so thick, you're crashing into them rather than the opposite. You adjust the fogged and smeared lenses with your cuffs and scrub at the flies spattered on the glass.

Peering over, you note that the too-friendly or malicious creeps are still angling to intercept you. They've shortened the gap. You can discern their aspects are grossly mauled, and the skin that isn't missing has a pallid unnatural hue. A tremor of fear passes through your soul. Unsympathetic, cordial or not, you want nothing more than to get as far away from them as possible.

Where is everyone? Between the gory characters and bugs, the empty streets, a heavy atmosphere of anticipation, you feel like you've stepped into another universe. Or woken up the last person on Earth.

You can't be dreaming, your ears sting. Your fists too. Exploring the rim of an ear, you discover it bloody. The back of your hand contains gouges! Removing your all-purpose E.T. (Every Thing), you weigh the pros and cons of activating the gadget and being tracked, monitored, to check the news - which is owned by the corporations and will tell you as much or as little as they deem necessary.

You're being monitored by cameras anyway, and sensors, in practically everything. You need to learn if there's an emergency, dictates logic. Pressing ON with a beep, fanning the buggy air, swirls of soupy mist undulating, you link to the rest of the world. Article headlines and videos leap off the screen, cryptic apocalyptic messages about zombies and mutant flies. Uh-huh, sure. This has to be a joke, some kind of prank or hoax. Zombies!

Reading an article, your optimism sinks. You feel like you're the only one who didn't know the world has ended . . .

It's true. Your gait lags. You remember the unsavories and pick up your stride. A solemn Asian anchorwoman intones, hair mussed, her complexion damp: "The Fruit Flies mutated to carnivores by retaining teeth from their larval phase. They appear to be immune to the pesticides and will lay their eggs in the living or rotting flesh of humans. The zombies may have been a result of this fly infestation - or a separate parallel affliction. These are the facts at present. We will update you as details and events -" The video cut off. That was hours ago.

What isn't being discussed in the news is what initiated the mutations, the underlying causes of these threats. Culpability lies with the corporate structure of society. Everyone who isn't Somebody grumbles this below their breath, but none of the masses are empowered to do anything about it. There was a time when speaking out mattered, when people everywhere could raise their voices together and inspire change. Now it was dangerous to disagree. Dangerous to complain, criticize, think differently. Those freedoms had led to war, it was taught. Now people are content. There is peace. If they don't like the way things are, they will be sent to Transition Camps. Basically, forced labor.

Perhaps a collapse of civilization wouldn't be so bad.

Your reverie has allowed the gimps to gain ground. You're grateful for the gas-mask. They must reek. Darting into a park, you are anxious to get rid of them. Should you go home? They might follow. The park seems tranquil, deceptively ordinary. A woman is seated on a low wall by a play area. You lope toward her. Maybe she's like you were, oblivious, out of touch.

Something isn't right. The flies appear to be orbiting her. You bustle to the center of the insect maelstrom and grasp her shoulder, then uneasily eye the matted hair and dirty garb. A face swings in your direction. She has lines, too many lines, but she seems okay. The face turns farther. Half of it is hideously ravaged. Her belly protrudes beneath a stretched top, a pregnant quaking mound. You scream as her abdomen detonates in a torrent of flies. A visage ripe with welts and tumors showers you. Blood and bugs. The insects penetrate your clothing. Zombies, attracted like sharks, stagger to the feast.

What did you expect, a happy ending?

Your E.T. tumbles out of your hand. On the screen plays a video filmed from a corporate office. A man in a black hood announces that Peace Corpse wants you to know what harmful substances people are breathing and ingesting. The contents of the "safe" pesticides are published. A list of toxic chemicals and sickness-causing contaminants liberally scrolls.

The video goes dark. A fly lands on the screen and merrily cleans its teeth.

Lori R. Lopez writes poems, short stories, novels, songs, and nonfiction as well as a dark often-humorous column called "Poetic Reflections". Her books include CHOCOLATE-COVERED EYES, DANCE OF THE CHUPACABRAS, THE MACABRE MIND OF LORI R. LOPEZ, OUT-OF-MIND EXPERIENCES, AN ILL WIND BLOWS and THE FAIRY FLY (ages twelve through adult). Her stories and verse appear in anthologies such as MIRAGES: TALES FROM AUTHORS OF THE MACABRE, MASTERS OF HORROR: DAMNED IF YOU DON'T, I BELIEVE IN WEREWOLVES, SOUP OF SOULS, THIRSTY ARE THE DAMNED, and SCARE PACKAGE: 14 TALES OF TERROR. Fifteen of Lori's poems were published for an anthology titled IN DARKNESS WE PLAY (Triskaideka Books).

Suzi M Scarred by Suzi M Staring at your own headstone is no way to start the evening, most people will tell you. Depending on the time and circumstances, I find staring at your own epitaph on your custom-made grave marker can really put your night in perspective. Nothing says you wasted your life quite like the old cliche 'so-and-so will be missed' sort of thing that distantly related relatives will slap onto that piece of rock. And if I have not yet had my cup of coffee to wake me up before staring at the hard gray truth... well, that makes for a shitty night for everyone.

I kicked my feet up onto the scarred surface of my desk-- an ancient wooden model with drawers that protested doing their built in duty more than a john paying for a trick. Staring at the tips of my shoes, I considered polishing them up for a more professional appearance; then decided it would be easier to just get a new pair of shoes. Ones without holes in the soles and along the uppers. From my reclined position I could still make out the curved top of my tombstone lurking in the shadows. I pulled open the bottom drawer of the desk and decided the best thing to do to set things right would be to American up my whiskey with a shot of coffee.

This is usually around the time that the hot chick walks into the noir detective's office and flounces more tit and ass than a guy can say no to, but I am sadly not that noir detective nor would the tactic work. I look good in a suit, sure, but I like the men. On an optimistic note, I am told that it is fairly normal behavior for women to feel that way. Whatever passes for normal, anyway. I am sure I still pass for a woman, but beyond that, I am totally at a loss.

Coming back from the dead was my first mistake. Going back to work instead of cashing out my sick days was my second mistake. After all, death was a very plausible excuse for not going to work. I think they may even give more time off if the person who died is you. As I said before, I am sadly not a noir detective, and this is not a noir detective story. I refuse to go sleuthing amongst the offices of human resources to find out how much time off I should be taking to mourn my own passing.

I could hear footsteps in the dingy hallway outside my office door, and then in walked a very agitated model of masculinity. His eyes darted here and there, then fell onto my desk and its little placard with my name and title.

"What can I do for you?" I asked casually while lighting a cigarette.

He looked to protest my smoking and I arched an eyebrow that said 'now was not a good time to talk about my bad habits.' I sucked in a breath and blew the smoke away from us, not that it helped in the small office.

"This is going to sound crazy," he started.

"You died. From the looks of you, I'd say it was by car accident."

He looked amazed. "Yes."

"And now you're wondering what the hell you're doing back amongst the air-breathers."

"Yes!"

"Mmmmm-hmmm."

"How did you know?"

I nodded to my own gravestone, squinting against the smoke. "Join the club, Hon. I've been getting calls off the hook since I came back."

He seemed genuinely disturbed by my office decoration. I have to admit, I could not remember how I had gotten the thing from my grave and into the office with me. Something in the back of what I assumed were my now maggots for brains told me I really should not investigate further into my demise; nor should I try to solve this undead Honey's case.

"Do you know what happened to us?"

"Nope. Not a clue."

"Will you find out for me? I need to know what's going on."

"Sorry, guy, I have my own worries. Since the resurrection I've decided to live a much more in the now life. That means I don't worry about the past, and I don't think about the future."

"I can pay...."

It sounded almost like a question, I had to smirk. I shook my head as I dropped my beat up shoes off my beat up desk and onto an even more beat up floor.

"Money's passe. I'm not quite sure what happened, but I don't want to know."

He stared at me as if I had died and come back from the grave. I sucked another drag off my cancer stick and regarded him for a moment, regretting my choice even before the words were out of my mouth. I have always been a sucker for blue-eyed frat boys and a man in uniform.

"Fine. I'll see what I can do."

In the end it all turned out to be a fluke. The dead started to drop off again and were quickly buried in vaults that were sealed. Accusations about government experiments flew, but no country stepped up to take the blame for it, and so there was no donkey on which to pin the proverbial tail.

Blue Eyes came back to my office looking hopeful. My poker face is not a good one, and he quickly got the idea that I had some bad news.

"Sorry," I began, "No answers.... We're just an accident."

"What does that mean?"

"Means we'll be sorted out in about a day or two."

"Huh?"

"We'll be taking another dirt nap again real soon."

"How do you know?"

"Because I broke a tooth trying to bite into someone's skull.... This isn't the movies. We're starving back to death."

"Shit."

"Indeed."

To learn more, follow Suzi on Facebook!

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/SuziMOfficial Tara Maya The One in the Basement Except for the banging on the basement door, it's the kind of Sunday mornings Marlie likes best. Never mind the noise, it's no bother. Best she was up anyway, it's almost half past seven. The kitchen smells like coffee and formaldehyde.

Outside, it's not too hot, yet still sunny. Beams of light illuminate the plants in her kitchen window. The plants are plastic, which are easier to care for than real plants. One only need keep them dust-free, and they're just as pretty as real flowers. The ceramic planters are adorable: a cotton-candy pink bunny, a lemon-meringue-pie colored ducky, an adorable elephant the exact same shade as a blueberry lollipop her mother gave her for her sixth birthday. There's a picture of pig-tailed Marlie with that lollipop in one of the photo albums, which are all lovingly enclosed in hand-sewn denim-and-lace covers.

Mama made those. Like Marlie, mama knew that keepsakes are important. Mama's memory isn't so good anymore, but Marlie keeps the memories for the sake of them both. Frank always complains about the clutter, and once he dared suggest she throw away the shelf of photo albums. Frank has never got along well with mama. But then, what man likes his mother-in-law? Marlie knows better than to heed to his grumbling about her mother. It's better to focus on the positive.

Marlie has just popped the toast, when Frank shuffles into the kitchen, still wearing his dingy gray robe and slippers. The toast is perfect golden brown. Marlie slathers the crusty bread with butter, which melts right and proper as you like.

"Gonna set fire to that woman one day," Frank says. He glowers at the basement door.

Although mama can't hear him and couldn't understand if she did, the banging stops. As if she knows Frank wants to destroy her and some instinct for self-preservation has kicked in. Not possible, sadly. Mama's mind is gone. Marlie considers it a blessing, really; she can no longer be offended by Frank's constant hostility.

Frank and Marlie are eating breakfast when the banging starts up again.

He starts to rise from his chair, scowling.

"Ignore it," says Marlie.

He harrumphs, but settles down again, without ever having stood completely. At his size, lugging his middle around is not done on a whim.

The door to their basement shudders from the pounding.

It used to be such a nice room, their basement. They insulated it and finished it off over three decades ago, back when Frank liked to DIY around the house; now he's too old and fat. Speaking of his weight, Marlie frowns to see that he has ignored the toast and coffee she's set out for him, and pillaged the fridge for donuts and soda instead.

"That'll be the death of you," she says.

"Maybe it will," says Frank. "There are worse ways to go."

"Did you take your heart medication? You always forget."

"Don't harp. You know the one thing I can't stand is a woman who harps."

What Frank doesn't tell her is that he is out of his medication. He thinks Marlie doesn't know, even though she keeps track of these things on her Kittens Calendar right next to the fridge. He never looks. He has been out for more than a week. She's worried, and wonders if she should pick them up herself. But going out to get more is getting harder and harder these days.

"When my time comes," he says, even grimmer than usual, "Don't let me become one of them."

The banging stops and the silence is startling. Almost worse.

"How about a cup of coffee instead of that dreadful soda?" Marlie asks.

"Promise me, Marlie."

"Don't be morbid. You know I can't abide that sort of talk."

Frank grunts. He turns on the TV, a small black and white, almost as old as their marriage but still able to get one channel. The only thing on is news, droning about the situation in Europe.