The Shit Show

The screen flickered as the news anchor introduced a panel of experts—scientists, generals, law enforcement officers, and politicians. Their faces were tense, each representing a different slice of the crisis unfolding across the globe.

Elmore watched intently, his body still from exhaustion, but his mind suddenly racing.

The first to speak was a scientist, a wild-eyed researcher with a mop of graying hair and a tired expression. "We’ve been observing rapid changes in animal behavior," he began, adjusting his glasses nervously. "There’s been a surge of mutations—abnormal speed, strength, and even intelligence. These creatures seem to be evolving at a rate we’ve never seen before, and we can’t fully explain why. Climate change could be a contributing factor, as global warming is causing extreme weather patterns, but there’s also something deeper happening on a molecular level."

Ash exchanged a glance with Elmore, concern etched on her face.

Another scientist, a woman with a sharp voice and cold demeanor, cut in. "The mutations aren’t limited to animals. We’ve seen human cases as well. These… mutations appear to be centered around individuals who exhibit enhanced physical abilities, and while we’ve classified these individuals as 'HomoNexus,' they’re not just humans anymore. They’re something else entirely. And in many cases, they’re incredibly dangerous."

The panel shifted as a general in full uniform came into view, his voice commanding and steady. "We’ve seen evidence of terrorist organizations using HomoNexus individuals as weapons. These mutants are being employed as attack dogs against military bases and embassies worldwide. It’s an organized effort. Worse, some of our own soldiers have been turned. We’ve had to put them down. We cannot allow these… things to infiltrate our ranks."

Ash’s hand tightened around her fork, her knuckles turning white as the general’s words echoed ominously.

"How is it spreading?" asked the news anchor, his face calm but clearly struggling to grasp the gravity of what was being said. "Is there a way to prevent it?"

The general shook his head grimly. "We’re still trying to understand that. We’ve seen some patterns, but nothing conclusive. All I can say is that anyone who begins showing signs of mutation has to be treated as a threat. We’ve lost too many men already."

Another scientist broke in, sounding defensive. "Let’s be clear—these mutations aren’t necessarily contagious like a virus. This isn’t something you can just catch from being close to a HomoNexus. However, prolonged exposure to certain conditions seems to unlock this genetic potential. The exact triggers are still unknown, but it could be environmental stressors, extreme trauma, or other factors."

The conversation grew more frantic, with each expert trying to outdo the last in explaining the chaos.

Then came the cop—a hardened officer from some sprawling urban city. His voice was rough, and the bags under his eyes told a story of sleepless nights. "Looting and violence have skyrocketed," he said bluntly. "People are scared, and when people get scared, they act out. The streets are full of panic, and we’ve seen an uptick in violent crimes—looting, shootings, assaults. In some areas, it’s like the world’s already gone to hell. Our recommendation is to move people into larger population centers where we can offer better protection."

The news anchor raised an eyebrow. "You’re advising people to head toward high-density areas, even though that could increase the risk?"

"We don’t have much of a choice," the cop shot back. "Out in rural areas or small towns, you’re on your own. At least in the cities, we can keep people together, keep some order."

Ash shifted uncomfortably in her seat, glancing toward the window as if expecting to see chaos spilling down the mountainside.

Then came the politician. A well-groomed man in an expensive suit, his tone was slimy, and his words felt rehearsed. "Half of the world’s governments have already fallen," he announced dramatically. "There’s unrest everywhere. But rest assured, we’re doing everything we can to stabilize the situation. We’ve deployed military resources to strategic locations, and we’re cracking down on these dirty mutants wherever they show up."

Elmore’s brow furrowed. The politician’s tone was grating, dismissive, as if the whole situation was nothing more than a public relations problem to be solved. He leaned back in his chair, sensing Ash's growing unease.

The politician droned on, waxing poetic about the steps they were taking. "We’re going to stamp out this problem before it spreads any further. These HomoNexus, these filthy mutants, will not destroy everything we’ve built. We will not allow them to take what’s ours."

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The news anchor broke in, asking pointed questions to try to cut through the man’s rhetoric. "What about reports that some HomoNexus individuals aren’t violent? That some are simply trying to live normal lives, or even helping others?"

The politician sneered. "They’re all dangerous. Maybe not immediately, but eventually. You can’t trust them. We’ve seen too many examples of their kind turning on the very people who thought they were safe. I don’t care what kind of sob stories are being circulated. These creatures need to be dealt with."

As the discussion continued, flipping back and forth between the wild scientific theories and the aggressive military and political rhetoric, Elmore felt a strange knot forming in his stomach. It was the same sensation he’d had after hunting that mutated deer—an instinct telling him that things were only going to get worse. A dark, foreboding cloud hung over the whole situation, and no amount of expert panels or promises from politicians was going to fix it.

He exchanged a glance with Ash, who was still staring at the screen. Her eyes were wide with concern, and she bit her lip as the tension in the room thickened.

"They don’t know what’s really going on, do they?" she whispered.

"No," Elmore said quietly, his voice low but certain. "They have no idea."

The First Showing

The argument began to spiral out of control.

“You’re asking us to treat these people like they’re rabid dogs!” the news anchor protested, trying to maintain some semblance of control over the rapidly deteriorating conversation.

“I’m telling you that they are rabid dogs,” the politician snapped, his face reddening, practically spitting the words across the studio. “These mutants are nothing more than a plague. And the longer we wait, the worse this will get. We need to act now—round them up, put them down before they destroy what’s left of civilization!”

The general, an imposing figure with years of hard-earned discipline etched into his features, leaned forward, his voice steady but sharp. “It’s not that simple. We need a methodical approach. These aren’t mindless creatures—some of them show intelligence, strategy even. If we just go in guns blazing, we risk losing control of the situation completely. They can adapt faster than we can. You saw what happened to our forces in the South.”

The politician’s face turned a shade deeper, his fists clenching the armrests of his chair. “We don’t have the luxury of playing nice! They’re freaks, monsters, and if we don’t snuff them out, they’ll kill us all. You know that. Don’t pretend you don’t!”

The general shot back, his voice rising now, uncharacteristically rattled. “What I know is that we’re not going to win this by panicking and treating everyone like an enemy! We’ve got to be smarter than that.”

“You’re being too soft, General. I thought the military had guts, but I guess I was wrong!” The politician was nearly shouting now, his hands trembling as he leaned over the table.

Before the general could respond, the politician’s face contorted with a sudden, violent spasm. His argument faltered, words choked in his throat as his body began to shake uncontrollably.

The panel, along with the audience, froze as the man gripped the edges of his chair, his breathing turning ragged. The color drained from his face, and his eyes bulged as he dry-heaved, convulsing with a force that knocked him out of his seat. He collapsed to the floor, writhing in pain, gasping for air as his body trembled violently.

Elmore, watching the broadcast, felt a chill run down his spine. He had seen this before. It was just like what had happened to him and Ash.

On the screen, the general stood up calmly, walking over to the convulsing politician. The camera followed his measured steps as he approached the man now curled on the ground, his face red, drenched in sweat and mucus.

The politician’s spasms slowed, but his body continued to twitch, thick ropes of mucus dripping from his nose and mouth. His skin seemed to pulse as if something underneath was changing, shifting.

The general drew his sidearm with a swift, practiced motion and leveled it at the politician’s head. “This is what happens,” he said, his voice cold and professional. “You see how fast it turns?”

The politician's eyes snapped open in terror. “No! No, I’m not one of them! Please, I’m normal! I’m normal!” His voice cracked with desperation as he scrambled backward, hands clawing at the floor. He raised his hands in defense, mucus-covered fingers trembling as he tried to shield himself from the inevitable shot. “Help me! Help me! I’m normal!” His voice cracked in a pitiful wail.

The general pulled the trigger, and the politician screamed as the bullet struck him square in the chest—except it didn’t. Instead, a thick layer of mucus seemed to bubble and surge, stopping the bullet as if it had hit some unnatural shield. The politician's screams echoed in the studio, his body now slick with the bizarre substance, mucus pouring off him in waves.

Without hesitation, the general holstered his sidearm, pulling a combat knife from his belt. He advanced on the politician, his face blank and emotionless. The man continued to scream, scrambling backward in terror, begging for help, shouting for someone to intervene. “Please! I’m not one of them! You can’t do this! I’m just sick! I’m still normal!”

But the general didn’t stop. He closed the distance in seconds, his boots stomping through the growing pool of mucus. The knife glinted under the studio lights as he plunged it into the man’s side, a quick and brutal strike.

The politician howled in pain, his body writhing under the general’s weight, but the general didn’t relent. His face was cold as ice as he drove the blade again and again into the man’s chest, then finally, he gripped the handle of the knife with both hands and drove it into the politician’s skull.

The studio went dead silent, the only sound being the soft gurgling of the politician’s last breaths and the slick drip of mucus hitting the floor.

Breathing heavily, the general stood, pulling the knife free and wiping it on his pant leg. He turned back toward the camera, covered in blood and mucus, his face blank but his eyes burning with purpose.

“That,” he said, pointing back at the mutilated body on the floor, “is how fast it happens. And that’s how you put one down—fast, before they get stronger. No mercy.”

The host, pale and shaking, sat motionless for a moment, unable to speak. His eyes darted from the dead body on the floor to the camera, then back to the general, who had calmly returned to his seat.

Finally, the host stammered out, “Well… uh… I think that’s… we’re going to have to cut the broadcast now, folks. Stay safe.”

The screen cut to black.

In Elmore’s living room, the sudden silence was overwhelming. He sat in stunned disbelief, his heart pounding in his chest. Ash’s face was pale, her eyes wide as they stared at the blank screen.

Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to.