Free The Dead Circle by Keith Varney

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    Through the night, the circle of exposed bodies has grown immensely. Ten thousand became a hundred thousand, expanding every minute as more and more of the population of Detroit is exposed, transformed, and called by some primitive instinct to join the horde.
    The crowd is so large and dense that it’s hard to distinguish individual people. The lot has taken on the appearance of an enormous flesh-colored storm system rotating like a hurricane. And like a hurricane, there is an eye in the center where the ground is still exposed, creating a single perfectly round spot of untouched earth. In this circle of patchy grass and pavement, a single red sneaker sits undisturbed and ignored.
    There is a strange order to the human storm. The circle rotates at an almost mathematically consistent pace around a single axis. Its sheer size creates a hypnotic, dizzying motion, as if the entire city was on a turn-table. It looks like the people of Detroit have created a second small planet slowly revolving in opposition to the earth.
    The sense of symmetry created by the steady rotation of the perfect circle is shattered by the chaos of the individuals within. Each naked figure’s intermittently spasming limbs constantly hit, shove or trip one another. It looks like a riot, teeming with angry elbows, fists and feet. Yet the fighting is slow-motion and the individuals are not responding to each other. One person hitting another does not cause a retaliation, or a reaction of any kind.
    There is no cause and effect—the people are merely taking random actions. Chris would say they look like video game characters controlled by someone who was just mashing random buttons—like a mom trying to play Mortal Combat.
    All the unclothed people might appear sexy from afar—so much naked flesh—it’s an unbridled bacchanalia of skin. There are no rules, just a massive collection of people devoid of modesty, boundaries or inhibitions on a scale unrivaled by even the greatest of Roman orgies. But the titillation breaks down on closer inspection. There is no passion or enjoyment on their faces. Just blank, lifeless expressions and empty white eyes. They are merely bodies in motion, moving flesh. It is not sex, it is horror.
    And the bodies are already beginning to break down. People, who had been mostly sedentary for their human lives, begin to show their fragility. Feet unaccustomed to walking over anything other than grass or carpeting are being damaged by the unforgiving pavement. Without the protection of shoes, they are becoming raw and beginning to blister. Corns wear down to soft skin and the soft skin bruises and cracks. Then they start to bleed.
    Shirley’s body has been walking barefoot for nine hours. The soles of her feet are cut in multiple places and are being slowly eroded by the asphalt, glass, dirt and trash. The toenail of her left big toe was torn back when she stepped on the edge of a curb. Her pinkie toe shattered when it was stomped on by another nameless foot. No longer able to hold its shape, it flops lazily like a deflated balloon every time she takes a step. Shirley would be in excruciating agony if she still felt pain. She should be hobbled and exhausted. But she is still upright.
    Many in the horde have not been as lucky. Hundreds of the weaker bodies—the elderly, the children—lost their footing and have been trampled. Endless rows of feet mash the fallen into pieces. The pieces mix with dirt and debris to form slippery patches of a horrible paste.
     
    ***
     
    Chris finishes his sweep of the building and pours himself a glass of water from the kitchen sink. Taking the stairs back into the library, he discovers Sarah staring dumbfounded at her computer. All the lights are now on. When she looks up and sees Chris holding the water, her eyes widen and her hands unconsciously grip the side of the table. She speaks slowly and clearly, almost in a monotone.
    “Chris. Put down the