Aggressive Behavior

"It's the end of the fuckin world!" Charlie shouted when he spotted Tony sulking into the bar. The thick haze of cigarette smoke parted for him as he approached.

"It's the end of my marriage," Tony replied, plopping onto a stool. "That's what the fuck it is."

"Told ya it would happen, Tony. The usual?" Charlie owned the place and poured the drinks.

"Fuck you too. No, stronger."

Tony was numb. It was the end of fifteen years with Nancy. He had always believed their fights were natural, just another part of married life. Not when they end in, "I want a divorce," dummy. He sighed.

Channel 5 News droned on the television set, Foley for his ears. "Though the patient had no vital signs whatsoever, she rose from her bed a few minutes later, exhibiting, uh... exhibiting, we're told, extremely aggressive behavior..."

"Will someone shut that tube up?" Tony asked to no one in particular. He was rewarded with a prompt "Ssh!" from a young man with his eyes glued to the screen.

And what did he and Nancy fight about? Christ, he couldn't even remember. You can forget about the kids, P.S. by the way. Thanks to modern courts, the bitch always gets the kids. Tony shuddered when he thought of his eldest son's deep disappointment.

"You're always pissed off and shouting, Anthony," Nancy had said.

"I am not always pissed off!" Tony had then screamed.

"–You shout at me, you shout at the boys–"

"I work my ass off every day to provide for this family–!"

"Don't give ya the right to treat every living thing you come across like shit, Tony!"

The bar door opened and brought Tony back to the present. He turned. It was Jason, a regular at Charlie's. He was a giddy pisshead, and all the college jerkwads loved him. He was also gay, and looked it. He had hair that fell in his eyes, a pink shirt, tight pants – the whole deal.

Please, Tony prayed, I can't take Queer Jason tonight. Don't let him sit at the bar.

He did.

Shit.

"Wait – I'm getting... I'm just receiving..." A reporter on the tube. "Ladies and gentlemen, the White House press secretary is making a statement on the attacks. We're going live to our correspondent..."

"What'll it be?" Charlie asked Jason.

"Uhhhmmm..." He was a tenor. "What's Tony having?"

Charlie shot him a sympathetic look. "You don't wanna have what he's having."

Jason laughed. "I think I do."

Charlie grunted and went to fetch it. Jason scooted over to Tony.

"This seat taken?" he asked.

"It's a free country," Tony mumbled. Charlie poured Jason's whiskey. Jason nodded and took it.

"Great taste," Jason said, again to Tony.

"Say what?" he replied.

The TV, "Above all, do not panic. Affected areas are being quarantined." A din of questions from the press corps. "But Mr. Secretary..."

"Great taste." echoed Jason.

Tony took a shot and gave him a dismissive thumbs-up. The press secretary said something about saliva, and avoiding a virus. Tony snorted.

Charlie said, "Jesus, Tony, ya watchin this?"

The faggot turned to look, but Tony didn't. He was looking for some great truth in the bottom of his shotglass.

"Wow," Jason mused. "It's really something, isn't it? What's going on, I mean. Thank God it's just in the big cities."

Charlie chimed in, "No, Jay, they said Rockefeller County had a case."

"It's somethin," Tony said, replaying the climactic moment of the fight in his memory. "I want a divorce!" Stunned silence. "I want a divorce!" Stunned silence.

"You know," Jason began, "We might be stuck here for a long time."

In his mind, Nancy was getting louder, more monstrous. "I WANT A DIVORCE!"

"Hey, uh, Tony. Did you hear me?"

"Fuck off, queer eye."

"What'd you say?"

I WANT A DIVORCE, TONY. I'M SICK TO DEATH OF PUTTING UP WITH YOUR SHIT!

Tony grabbed Jason by his pink collar. "I'm not in the mood, fag-face. Go poke up someone else's shitter."

"Hey, fuck you," Jason whimpered.

Charlie squawked a half-hearted, "Break it up, guys." Tony unhanded Queer Jason and watched him storm out.

"Jesus H. Christ," Charlie said. "Scare all my customers away, why don't ya? No wonder Nancy left you."

"Are you doin the DVD commentary of my fuckin life, Charlie?!"

Charlie sighed. "Just keep it down, buddy."

"Ain't in the mood," Tony growled. An ambulance screamed past the bar, briefly bathing them in red light.

It was long after midnight when Tony left. He was utterly smashed, and his attempt to wiggle into his jacket ended in disaster. Charlie spoke the requisite, "Gimme your keys."

"Fuck you, Charlie. I'm walkin."

"That's not such a good idea, buddy. There was a case in Rockefeller–"

"TV says a lot of shit, I'm walkin." Tony pushed open the door and stepped into the night.

The street was deserted. The only sound was his labored breath and crunching feet. If a tree falls in a forest, and no one hears it, did it happen? Tony burped a chuckle. If a man says something, and no woman hears him, is he still wrong?

He walked the length of Moody Street south to the intersection at Frock Parkway. Right was home and Nancy and the kids. Left was the Holiday Inn. He went right.

The soft, reassuring glow of the streetlights gave way to darkness where the road dipped to the river, over which an eighteenth-century bridge still stood. The trees twisted overhead, blocking the moon, but Tony knew the route.

Where the road ended and the bridge began, Tony vomited, letting the day loose onto his shoes. He coughed.

Then something moved in the corner of his eye.

It wasn't much, just a dark shape slowly rising, but the hair on the back of his neck rose with it.

Tony squinted as fear oozed into every corner of his being. It was an ancient, primal terror. Man has locked it away, but never truly forgotten it: The fear of the hunted.

He took a few unsure steps onto the dusty stone of the old bridge. Maybe it was the dark playing tricks, figures forming out of optical illusions, alcohol fucking up his –

Then the shape shuffled forward. A chilling moan gurgled over the soft churn of river water.

Tony's eyes started to adjust. First he made out the pink shirt, then the stupid haircut, then the bloody gash in the throat... That was new.

His subconscious thrust memories forward. The TV had said, "The virus reanimates dead tissue. Avoid the infected at all costs... The pathogen is transmitted through saliva and the blood."

Jason stepped closer. Tony wobbled in his shoes. The fag stank worse than he did, reeked of dead air, of the tomb.

"Jay?" Tony inquired. "That you? Listen, buddy, I didn't mean all that stuff I said... Nancy left me, and– Jesus, whatsa matter?"

Jason reached out for him and took him by the shoulders. The moonlight reflected off his eyeballs, bringing them into sharp visibility. Tony saw no soul behind those eyes.

"Get away from me!" Tony thrashed, putting his hands up. Jason lurched forward and bit into the webbed flesh between Tony's forefinger and thumb.

Tony screamed and blood welled. He tore his hand away and leapt back, collapsing to his hands and knees. He dug a rock out of an ugly crevice in the stone bridge, hoisted himself up, and faced Jason.

He stared at Tony slack-jawed, blood dripping down his chin. There was something inhuman in that stare. Something hungry.

Tony attacked, smashing the rock into the staring face and staining it with sallow brain fluid. After his fourth or fifth strike, and Jason crumpled lifeless, Tony realized he was sobbing.

"Fuckin A... Why'd ya make me do that? They was only words, the shit I said..."

His bitten hand throbbed and shook. The tears streamed freely down his cheeks. All he could think of was getting home. He needed to hold his boys. He yearned to make love with his wife.

Clenching his bleeding hand, Tony limped for home. He'd plead with Nancy. Maybe he could make things right.