The Infected Must Be Killed on Sight

The rash started on her belly. It didn't itch, exactly. She rubbed at it every now and then, absent-mindedly, and each night, she checked it in the mirror to see if it was getting worse.

"Do you think this needs a doctor?" she asked Brent one day in the lab. She tugged up her blouse halfway. The subcutaneous lace-work made a distinct outline on her skin. "It looks like a kitten."

Brent's eyes widened. "How does it feel?" he asked carefully. "Does it hurt?"

"No. It feels... funny."

"My God," Brent whispered. "They've escaped containment."

"Who?"

"The cats. The LOLcats."