They haven’t found me, but I hear them. Oh, how I hear them! The sounds of the rotting roamers fill my waking, and my sleeping. I hear their scraping, shambling steps, their half-choked moans.
And I hear the strangled moos of dead cows roaming free. If I close my eyes, I can pretend–for ahwile–that this is Calcutta. But it isn’t; it’s Nebraska, where eating vegetarian meant chicken instead of beef.
I sometimes forget how this all happened. The plague was easily identifiable, and afflicted cows were summarily destroyed.
But then they came to me. Made me an offer I should have refused.
But I didn’t. Taking advantage of my position at the plant, I mixed in the tainted meat. And all hell slowly broke loose.
My name is Jude S. Mericot.
And I sold out the human race for $30,000.
