As you go back inside your house, you see a well-dressed man standing inside of your living room, a man you do not know. Ancient gut instincts sound alarms across your mind and body. Despite appearances, every fiber of your being doesn't want to repel this intruder, but to run and run and run far away from him.
Much as you want to articulate what about this man disturbs you so, only the word "wrong" screams across your mind.
"What are you doing in my house?" you yell.
He raises his hands. "Apologies," he says. "I'm Dr. Inculta."
You've been on the earth long enough to know that anyone in your home uninvited is anything but friendly. You scan the living room for something to defend yourself with. Several items come to mind. A poker by the fireplace. A stack of hardcover books with your copy of Feed by Mira Grant perilously crooked sideways at the top.
"I don't need a doctor. Out," you spit.
Dr. Inculta tilts his head. "I'm afraid I cannot."
You reach into your pocket for your cell phone and dial 911. It's a long shot, you know. Every night, the sirens blare, but the news says more and more police are falling ill. Will anyone pick up?
"I suspect you've seen the news. Could be a while before they arrive," Dr. Inculta says.
An automated message blares through the phone. No one to answer. No one is coming.
Dr. Inculta calmly walks through the living room, dragging his finger across a small portrait of you and your family. "Incredible," he says. "This might be of no interest to you, but to have your loved ones close, like this, in my day it cost a fortune."
"Out," you repeat. Goosebumps prickle your skin.
The man smiles, a pair of peroxide white fangs peek from below his upper lip.
“This plague of yours... nasty business. Food’s gone bad, and I'm quite hungry," Dr. Inculta says.
As he looks into your eyes, you feel a pull towards him, as though your will is no longer your own.