I can't breathe. It's as if, the air, had become a, homicidal mafia goon, with a piano wire around my neck. I fight back. But that's not what's important. But what is important, When you see the city you've grown up in, resembling the aftermath of a wild bull on methamphetamine, ravaging a sand castle. I can't decide. The street gutters clogged. Backed up like the Caldecott. I don't want to know, nor do I ever, want to know, what's clogging them. It's taunting me.

I can't look away. The crimson red shimmer, like a jewel in a dragons cache. Blood. But why blood? I investigate. The horizon, plastered with fingers of fire. Expelling fire-flies into the atmosphere. The silhouettes of survivors approaching, running from the fire. No! Running at me! For me! They are not survivors, merely the undead. Like an ant on a desk, I am exterminated. I become them.

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