The Dancers of DeeDee's

The neon sign outside flickered in tired pink cursive: DeeDee’s.

Inside, the club was all velvet drapes, art deco mirrors, and smoke that clung low to the ceiling like a sensual secret. The dancers wore feathers, pearls, and little else. The band played something brassy and slow. Patrons, mostly men, leaned close to whisper over the music, laughter rising and falling in lazy waves.

It was almost closing time, almost dawn,  when Marla collapsed mid-routine.

At first, people thought it was part of the act. She fell so gracefully—one arm arched overhead, rhinestones flashing under the spotlight. The music faltered when she didn’t move.

“Marla?” someone called from backstage.

She lay face down on the polished floor.

The crowd murmured. Men chuckled nervously. The drummer tapped a rimshot to ease the tension.

Then Marla’s body jerked. Not a breath and not a cough. A strange, violent snap of movement, like a puppet yanked by invisible strings.

Her head twisted at an impossible angle, like an owl with a broken neck. When she pushed herself upright, the spotlight caught her face, lingering on it like a sweet caress.

Men, the patrons, gasped and recoiled on instinct.  Her eyes were wrong, clouded, milky, and Unseeing.

She opened her mouth, but what came out wasn’t a scream or a sob. It was a wet, rattling, hungry hiss. The closest man reached out, maybe to help, maybe to steady himself. 

She lunged, teeth snapping. The scream that followed cut through the music like a blade. Chairs toppled. Glass shattered. Blood streaked across the checkered floor as Marla bit and tore, driven by something that no longer recognized rhythm or applause.

Security rushed in, but confusion slowed them. One grabbed her shoulders. Another tried to pry her loose. When the first guard fell, clutching his throat, the panic became a stampede.

The band fled for the back exit—only to find Marla’s dressing room door swinging open. Another dancer staggered out, jaw slack, skin already paling. Whatever happened to Marla happened to her, too. Or was she first?

The infection moved faster than fear. Screams echoed against velvet curtains. High heels snapped. Pearls scattered across the floor like dropped teeth. Patrons shoved each other toward doors, but in the crush, one bite became two. Two became five.

Within minutes, DeeDee’s elegant speakeasy atmosphere dissolved into chaos. The power cut out—someone must have hit the breaker in the scramble. Darkness swallowed the room, broken only by the flickering neon outside.

Through the shaded and curtained windows, silhouettes pressed against the glass.

Inside, the music had stopped. The sounds didn’t. Low growls. Wet shuffling steps. The thud of bodies hitting the stage. The faint metallic jingle of costume jewelry as the undead dragged bright and blood-stained feathers across the floor. 

The neon sign buzzed and sputtered outside. Through the front window, there was movement.

Not celebrating and not the usual dancing.

Just a room full of figures swaying slowly beneath the dim, dying lights.

DeeDee’s never reopened.

By morning, the infection had already spread beyond the velvet curtains and into the sleeping city beyond. And no one who had been inside that night ever walked out alive.