we are known survivors on the run
on the tour bus, she sits at the far back (or are we up close in front?)
she opens her legs to me.
we are what’s left: needing supplies, food, a change of clothes
we stop at an abandoned departmental store. we know the entire population here is gone.
I am tensed, coiled, climbing to level two, overlooking outside the store
from corners, I see an elongated man running, faster than any human
others follow, fleeing, never stopping to acknowledge us
I understand the nature of prey, I understand they run from the hunters
hunting us in packs
I’m calling out to the survivors in the internet cafe
“GO BACK TO THE BUSSES! GO BACK, GO BACK!”
they do not find any news about what’s happening
I wait till everyone has left
the hunters move in, in packs
I am the last, tension driving me up slopes in a multi storey carpark
find the busses. find the busses.
wrong level. find the busses.
I reach the top but no busses could be found. I’m the last one left.
at the railings, overlooking the dark streets, there is a brigade of armoured ambulances, moving slowly in grids, sirens and lights off to avoid attention
a mechanical crane from an ambulance reaches up to me
i scramble on
i’m taken down into safety
the Japanese driver asks if i know the routes.
I do not.
we keep moving, a slow pace, as if keeping watch or searching, but no one else is around. I am the last.
from the back window, I watch the first of a few busses creep up on us, busses towed by trucks, moving in packs, like the hunters.
I search the faces and bodies of each bus till i recognise the man in the orange shirt. I cannot say if the head count is right. I cannot say if we are safe.
there is a medical experiment next to me. a man with his finger pressed to the corner of his left eye
it forces a squint. I see what he sees.
emaciated humanoids, bald and bare bodied, armed with black weapons. they move at intense speeds, the one who sees, slows down oracular footage. the hunters, by their very presence, turns the forest and streets and their skins, an ashen grey. they move like flickers between the frames. they hunt us in packs.
a sniper in the ambulance, aims. no one is sure if bullets are quick enough. no one is sure why we can’t go faster.
one sees pincered creatures of the sea emerging, turning their shells and seas and streets ashen grey.
they hunt us in twos.
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