Fingers trailed down the length of my chest, coming to rest just above my navel. “Good night, Shaun,” whispered a voice, inches from my ear.

God. For the first time in longer than I could remember, the world felt like it was actually back the way that it was supposed to be. I brought up a hand to brush my knuckles against her cheek, smelling the sweet-salt-sex smell of her, and smiled.

“Good night, George,” I said, and slipped away into sleep.

Mankind’s history is littered with singularities—big moments that changed everything, even if nobody knew they were coming The discovery of antibiotic medicine was a singularity. Before that, it was normal for women to die of “childbed fever,” a simple staph infection making them die slowly and in great agony. Cavities killed. Antibiotics changed all that, and less than fifty years later, the thought of living the way people lived before antibiotics was alien to almost everyone.

The industrial revolution was a singularity. As you sit reading this, consider that, once, electric lighting was considered a luxury, and some people weren’t even sure it would catch on. The idea that someday the entire world would be run by machines was crazy, preposterous science fiction… but it happened.

The Rising was a singularity. The way we live today isn’t just a little different. It’s alien. Our paradigm has shifted, and it can’t be shifted back. That’s why so many of the old rules of psychology don’t apply anymore. Once the dead are walking, crazy’s what you make it.

—From Cabin Fever Dream, guest blog of Barbara Tinney, April 20, 2041

Tonight’s watch-along film is that classic of the genre, The Evil Dead, wherein a truly spicy young Bruce Campbell—yum—is menaced by demons, evil trees, and his own hand. I’ll be opening the chat room at eight Pacific, and live blogging the whole movie for those of you whose attention spans won’t tolerate anything longer than a few hundred characters.

I hope to see you all online, and remember, last person to log on owes me a drink.

—From Dandelion Mine, the blog of Magdalene Grace Garcia, April 20, 2041

Sixteen

I woke sprawled buck-ass naked on the guest room bed, surrounded by the furry mounds of sleeping bulldogs. Groaning, I pushed myself up onto my elbows. The door was open about a foot—just enough to explain my unwanted guests. I scrubbed at my face with one hand, trying to wake up enough to start worrying about my clothes. “Guess it’s time to deal with another fucking morning, huh, George?”