One thing becomes increasingly clear to me as I try to make sense of what is going on: I am incredibly ill equipped for this situation—and I’m not even talking about my choice of shoes and bathrobe.
Whatever drove these maniacs insane to make them attach others, there is some reason to it, I discover: they go for immobile targets, preferably in groups. Why, I don’t understand since conventional predator behavior should make them single out the weak loners, right?
Movement seems to turn someone invisible to their interest; maybe that’s how they recognize each other? Or maybe they just go for the low-hanging fruit, a strategy I can relate to.
Looks like I’ll be instantly subscribing to the new healthy lifestyle of running.
Have I mentioned that I hate few things in life more than running?
I’m well aware of the fact that I’m not completely processing the situation. I don’t know anything about the whys and hows of what is going on. What I actually do is, I observe, I jump to conclusions, and then I’m mindlessly flying down the block, still hoping this is a localized thing and I will be out of the thick of it before I run out of air.
Since that happens maybe a tenth of a mile later, I don’t think my day will be getting any better soon. Well, night. Part of me is surprised I even managed that far, and without losing either of my flip flops.
As hungry, angry eyes turn on me as soon as I slow down on the sidewalk, panting loud enough to drown out the sirens, I know I’m fucked.
I have a choice, I realize, as I stumble into the next intersection.
The shortest route out of the city—I think—is to head north. Following what Mason said, that would make the most sense. Problem is, there are several blocks of high-rise housing between here and what anyone could begin to consider the suburbs. I’m also not that keen on ending up in the desert. Or the hills.
South lies downtown, and not even on a sane day I’d venture there.
Since I’m kind of already heading east, it makes sense to keep doing that—particularly when I remember there’s a park maybe a mile down the street. Open spaces might mean more exposure, but it sure beats trying to dive into a dumpster.
That’s option four, and I’m not keen on going for that yet.
I reach the park what feels like an eternity later, exhausted to the point of collapse from the haphazard sprints I manage. I’ve probably not been attacked yet because I weave worse than the crazies.
There’s a picnic table and benches off the path I stumble on that look deserted.
I dive for it and crawl underneath, for the first time ever not caring how much gum may be sticking to the underside of the table. It’s shelter, and the best I can do until I can calm down enough to think.
If only those damn sirens would stop!
A few seconds later, they actually do.
I’m about to heave a sigh of relief—never mind that I have mind control powers now, it seems—when the reason for it becomes apparent.
All the lights go out, too, casting the entire city into darkness.