It was sometime after midnight, with five hundred miles to go
It was sometime after midnight, with five hundred miles to go
What is involved in the transubstantiation of one thing
(Sea foam and mist, scale and sinew, pearl-tinted hands)
Into another, quite against its nature, quite against design?
“Earl,” I said, “what the hell am I supposed to do
With a clockwork chicken?
Seanan McGuire’s SF-horror short (published in 2011, issue 20) follows a media savvy bioterrorist and her work to infect the world’s population with her “little daughters.”
“Quarantine is important—we’ve known that since the Middle Ages—but it’s a scalpel, not a hammer. No one should suffer alone.”
Bridget ducked behind the remains of a burned-out Impala, crouching low as the zap-zap-zap of blaster fire split the October night. The sound was already familiar enough to turn her stomach. Not just because it meant another survivor had been spotted—because there was nothing she could do to help whoever it was.