I am beginning to think 300 to 500 words on xombytes. I exempt poetry. I do not think blurbs belong in the bytes section. I am a transformed man. Conversion was not as hard as I thought it would be! I'm a pushover.

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Aerial. Circling the scene. Emergency vehicles all converging, some as close as five blocks. the sirens grow louder and louder. Camera follows a man walking jauntily up the stairs nodding to the Cop at the door, Brushing by him, walking into the bedroom. Man Faces Idle: Idle is making sure his mask is tight. Idle: Pub, they detailed you to Vice. You shouldn't even be here. Les: Get him a mask. Pub: Pretty routine for the likes of you two. Brains all over the wall. What's that smell? Maraschino? Idle tries to hand Pub a mask still sealed in it's plastic pouch. Pub shakes his head. Close up. Eyes focus on the dead woman. Long duration camera shot. Pub: I don't need the mask. Publius leans closer to the naked body, looking for something, or at something. Pub: Like 'em with more meat. Too skinny. Aren't you going to do the decent thing and close her eyes? Before Idle or Les can stop him, Pub is touching the woman's eyelids, forcing them closed. Pub has the Woman's lacrimal fluid on his fingers. Idle looks at Les. Les: We've got to get his fingers clean. Alcohol won't kill it. Bleach. I'll check her laundry. Pub: I'm okay. Idle draws his weapon. Making sure Pub sees him do it, he cocks the hammer. Points it at Pub's head. Holds it steady. Idle: Pub. Do not move. Hold your hands right there in front of you. Yes. Like that. In a moment, Les returns from the laundry, a bottle of bleach in his hands. From his kit, Les pulls a 500 ml plastic bag-wrapped beaker. He Dumps 300 ml of bleach into the wide topped beaker. Les: Pub. Whichever fingers touched her eyes or lids, put them in the bleach. Thumb too. When they have soaked enough bleach follow me to the kitchen sink. I have gloves on. I'll turn on the water, and we will wash the bleach off your hand. Pub: What is going on here? Les: Come to the kitchen. Idle please keep him covered. Pub follows. Les turns on the water and Pub lets the water take the bleach off. Les points at the towel dispenser. Les: Dry your hands. Then put the gloves on that Idle tried to give you. Pub: That's what I hated about working with you guys. You won't tell me anything. Les: If I am right, and I think I am, you have touched a woman, and gotten her body fluids on you and exposed yourself and us to the 100% fatal man-made virus, Pyro. If you, or any of us are infected, we will be dead in three days; four days tops. Even you smelled it. So did I. Pub: You are not telling my supervisor about this, are you? If Itch here this. . .? Idle: What? Tell Vice Commander Schnau, the Lady Dragon? I heard you guys were calling her the Itch. She is really nice. ..if you get to know her. Les: Us tell the Lady Dragon? We won't have to. You will be at the Medical Isolation Facility, with us. If you live, and she wants to hear your excuse, you can tell her. Or Idle can just shoot you now. Idle: If you want, Pub. We can solve that problem for you right now. When does he get infectious? Les: What I read says 61 hours after exposure. It is detectable, and then it explodes. You burn in fever. All bodily fluids, including your moist breath become capable of carrying the virus. I do not know if the 2 micron mask will slow it down, but needed to try something that is the best I got in the kit here. Pub: shall we cover her? Les: No. Lets go into the living room. Pub, there is nothing to see here. She is dead. We have a killer with a silencer the xomba force has to find. We are on vacation for the next three days. Les: And Pub. One more thing. If you script this further, you have to stay in the character as I have outlined it. You risk being tossed off the xomba force, and Commander Schnau won't be able to save you. Worse, CSI Xomba may have to cut you loose to try it on your own, no more help on your postings. No more slack. I read your profile. You were a Doctor, Then you switched to educating the dumb masses. I sure don't care, and neither does Idle, I'm sure. Teach or be a Doctor, or work vice. Script-writer? Maybe start your own show. Write yourself as anything. Trucker, War Hero, auto mechanic, pipe fitter, plumber, professor. Write your own Character. But here you are as outlined. Camera records the action, black moon-suiters white-moon-suiters. Les: as Voice Over: as though talking to himself. . . The first moon-suiters to arrive looked like a moon-suited SWAT team. I was going to remark their weapons would not stop the virus. But maybe they would? Anyone infected could be shot, slow the spread down. If it just spreading, shooting and burning the remains is what a species might be forced to do. A kind of apoptosis from me should not be expected. They would have to shoot me. The literatures says it is excruciating before you xombie. When veg you are as responsive as a carrot. I just waited. A light reddish moon-suiter introduced him self as Colonel Ripe, a Marine, a doctor. I filled him in. Maybe we wouldn't get shot yet. Pub would have to explain himself to his commander. . .the silencer. I looked. Nothing. Maybe a dog is what we needed. A bloodhound. . . A hound might be able to follow the scent and the faint maraschino that had to go with it, might help. . . I told Colonel Ripe. . .He got on it.