When it all began, Wesley was not yet a monster. He was a massage therapist. His apartment was small and tidy, his checkbook was balanced, and he called his parents twice a week – Wednesdays and Saturdays – to let them know everything was still okay in his life, that nothing had changed. He became a massage therapist not out of any specific desire, but because a woman he’d once been interested in had been one and had told him how much she loved her work. He didn’t love it, but had strong hands and had become proficient at it. Only fifteen percent of his clients completely disgusted him, and he had to imbibe a few shots of whisky before he could bring himself to touch them. He was with one of those clients, a man named Reynolds whose back was so hairy that Wesley felt at times he was massaging a mongrel dog, when it began. In fact, Wesley’s first inkling that something odd was afoot came from Reynolds. “When I arrived, your doorman was eating a carrot,” he said.

          It irked Wesley when someone said “your doorman,” as if Wesley were responsible for him. He was the doorman to the whole building, only one office of which belonged to Wesley. Didn’t even belong to him, really, as he was renting. Wesley’s office was on the third floor, but the view was of an alley where the less fortunate defecated and slept, so he put up curtains and kept them closed.

          Why Reynolds should find it of interest that the building’s doorman was chewing on a carrot was none of Wesley’s concern. He assumed all of Reynold’s interests were banal, and had no desire to hear about any of them. Even Reynolds’ voice rubbed Wesley the wrong way. But Reynolds continued: “Its collar fell out of his mouth onto the sidewalk in front of me.”

          Now Wesley responded. “Wait, the carrot had a collar?”

          Reynolds lifted his head off the massage table and turned it – as much as he could – toward Wesley. “A cat, man, he was eating a cat.”

          Well, that was different, and curiously unlike the doorman, who’d always been polite and tactful in his presence. Was he really so poorly paid that he had to feast on cats from the alley? Wesley might have to put in a word with building management on the doorman’s behalf. Certainly the man should make a living wage. Of course, this could turn against him, as Wesley never tipped the doorman. Would management ask him to do his part? “I am quite capable of opening the door myself, so why should I give someone money for a service I don’t need?” he reasoned. It was not up to the building’s tenants to keep the doorman from resorting to eating stray animals, for Christ’s sake. He wished Reynolds hadn’t brought it up. Reynolds really put him off.

          But people all over the city found themselves that day craving a new and unusual diet. Cats were the least of it. By comparison, the doorman’s behavior was quite restrained. Others were soon running through the streets, trying to feast on unaccompanied children or anyone who was moving slowly on the sidewalk, tourists who needed to stop in front of every damn shop window or take photos of themselves at every landmark. No one would miss the tourists, but something was still clearly wrong.

          Wesley stood outside the building and watched the scene. Reynolds had left, and he had a break before his next appointment. He thought once again how little he enjoyed providing massages to the average – or in some cases below average – citizen. It was as he pondered making a career move that the doorman bit him.

          “What the hell?” Wesley shouted, turning to face the man.

          “Sorry, sir. I couldn’t help it. You look so delicious. It won’t happen again.”

          “See that it doesn’t,” Wesley told him sternly. Was this in retaliation for his failure to tip? Whatever the reason, Wesley was going to have to speak about this incident to the building management. This type of behavior was simply not acceptable. When he got back to this office, he discovered that his shoulder was bleeding, that the doorman had actually bitten off a small chunk of flesh. This reinforced his decision to report him to management. “That cheeky bastard, I’ll have him fired for this, poverty or no poverty.” The wound throbbed, and Wesley went through his desk drawers in search of ibuprofen. While he went about this fruitless search, his phone rang.

          “Wesley Pickens,” he said calmly.

          “This is Don Fennel. I have to cancel my 1:30 appointment today. Sorry about the short notice, but I just devoured my wife and am on my way to the police station to turn myself in.”

          “I understand,” Wesley said, though he most certainly did not understand. “We can reschedule later,” he added, but by then Mr. Fennel had hung up. Giving up on the ibuprofen, Wesley opened his bottle of whisky. He poured a shot, but then ignored it and took a swig from the bottle instead. Things were seriously wrong.

          To learn just how wrong, he turned on the television, something he rarely did at the office, for his clients found the news to work against the state of relaxation they sought. That didn’t matter now that his next appointment was going to jail. It didn’t take long to hear what was happening. Every station was covering the story. A strange illness resulted in an extreme hunger for live meat among those affected. “My wife is a monster,” a distraught man told a reporter. “When I got home, our baby’s arm was sticking out of her mouth, his hand reaching out to me.” The reporter went on to say there had been hundreds of confirmed deaths already, and they expected that number to climb steadily until the disease was better understood and brought under some control. What they surmised at this point was that it was transmitted through bodily fluids – saliva and blood mainly. Those who were bitten but not killed would likely come down with the sickness within a matter of hours.

          “Oh, hell,” Wesley said.

          The disease, the reporter indicated, did not seem to be fatal, at least not to those infected, though it was too early to be certain. It was also unclear how long a person would remain sick. As of yet, no medicine had any positive effect. “Those people who believe they’ve been infected, whether or not they’ve exhibited any symptoms, should seek medical attention immediately,” the reporter stated.

          Wesley’s phone rang again. He ignored it. He took another swig from the whisky bottle. His life as he’d imagined it was over. Any moment now he’d begin eating people. Well, he had no intention of being sober for that. Fortunately, he had a second bottle of whisky handy for when the first ran out. And when that second bottle ran out, there was a liquor store just two blocks away. The scene on the television screen looked grim, with sick people in tears over their recent actions, and hospital beds filling up fast. “To protect the medical staff, we’re having to restrain incoming patients,” a doctor told reporters. And that is what kept Wesley from going to the hospital.

          His phone rang again. This time he answered.

          “Wesley Pickens,” he said.

          “Wesley, hi, it’s Louise Carson. I just wanted to make sure you were still open, what with all the nonsense going on.”

          “Well, Louise, I suppose – ”

          “Great. See you at 3:30.”

          Before Wesley could tell her it might not be in her best interest to keep her appointment, she had hung up. Wesley stood there a moment, then decided what the hell, sick or not sick, his rent would still be due on the first of the month, so he’d better make the effort to keep his clients – those not in jail or hospital. He also figured he’d better sober up some. Louise Carson was a bit on the prim and proper side, and would likely find herself a new masseur if she got a whiff of his state of inebriation. He poured himself the first of several cups of coffee from the pot he kept brewing for clients. He figured he had just enough time to get sober. But it was going to take more than coffee. He decided to have a big lunch, not only to help absorb the alcohol, but also in the hope that the food would stave off the more dreaded hunger that was due to overtake him.

          Louise Carson arrived promptly at 3:30 p.m. Louise Carson was always prompt. Wesley was ready for her. There was a specific record she liked to hear while receiving her massage, and Wesley had it cued up. “I really need this today,” she told him as she lay on the massage table and the music began to play. “It’s stressful out there.” Louise Carson liked to talk a bit at the beginning of her massage, but she did not like to listen, and so Wesley kept quiet, offering no observations of his own.

          It was nearly the halfway point of Louise’s allotted time when Wesley began to see her differently. For a moment, he thought it was the alcohol, but Wesley was damn near sober at that point. Something was different, for Louise Carson had an alluring odor that Wesley had never sensed before, and her skin greatly resembled a pumpkin pie. He knew he shouldn’t, but he just couldn’t resist. “I’ll take one small bite,” he decided.

          By the end of her allotted time, there was very little left of Louise Carson. And somehow Wesley was still hungry. He had no more scheduled appointments that afternoon, so no more meals would be delivered. He knew he shouldn’t treat his clients that way, but he also knew he would be unable to stop himself. This was the end. Wesley reached for the whisky bottle. His aim was to drink himself into a stupor so that he’d be unaware of his actions. But something peculiar happened. As the alcohol took hold, his hunger subsided. And the more he drank, the less he craved living flesh. “I should tell someone,” he thought. “I should alert the news program.” But by then he was too drunk to move, and soon was asleep. Fortunately, Wesley wasn’t the only infected person who took to the bottle and made this discovery. Multiple reports came in to police stations and news stations from citizens more responsible than Wesley, and the information was quickly disseminated to the public. Liquor stores did tremendous business, and were allowed to stay open all night. It was likewise for bars, which became safe havens, and even advertised themselves as such. Some folks soon forgot their initial reason for excessive drinking, and what could have been the apocalypse turned into a celebration.

          And there was, in fact, something for many to celebrate. Because it was clear that people had no control over their actions, the government decided not to pursue murder cases against those who were infected. This decision led to some enterprising and healthy murderers eating their victims and claiming it was because of the sickness.

          Wesley, for his part, upon waking that first morning believed himself to have contacted the authorities, and announced to anyone who would listen that he was responsible for saving the city. Those that would listen were drunk, and so readily accepted his claim. He continued his massage practice, though had to work to build up a fresh group of clients. It was difficult to maintain his business while in a constant state of inebriation. But when it came down to it, more than half the city was in such a state. Even the kids. To save the children, the law setting the drinking age at twenty-one was abolished. And most other laws regarding alcohol were not enforced. And yes, fatalities due to drunk drivers increased exponentially. But most people agreed that dying in a car wreck was a far better fate than being eaten by the doorman.