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Virus

Drawn by the sound of the propellers, the lunchtime crowd looked to the sky. An airship passed over the skyscrapers, plumes of black, virus-laden smoke spewing behind it. Traffic below stopped. People paused on the sidewalks and watched the cloud sink slowly towards them.

The virus stuck to their hands and faces and clothing like thin jello, seeping into their bodies. And as the people resumed their business, going to lunch or to other appointments, they began to change. Their skin cracked, forming little bloody half moons that dried and hardened into scales. The whites of their eyes turned yellow, and then amber. Their tongues split into forks. Their hair fell out.

As the day went on, they lost language for a time. Instead, they used gestures and emanated scents. Work still got done, even for complex processes involving actuarial tables and souffles. Work always gets done, but those with leisure time sunned themselves on park benches and on the steps of buildings.

There was a small rise in violent crime. Some people were eaten. Product liability suits would be filed.

At the end of the day, the airship again passed over the city, and the temporary reptile people craned their thick necks, eyes slit with anticipation. What, oh, what, they wondered, would the next fashion virus bring?

[Hear the podcast of this story at Escape Pod.]