Episode Eighteen Leaving the City

S hanna

My throat is raw from screaming. The whole time I was running across our front lawn, tossing my cooler and backpack into the car, and sliding into the back seat, I didn't take my eyes off Chaska fighting those lions.

Once inside the car, I could no longer hold back my terrified scream.

The moment he slides out from under the second lion's thankfully dead body, we pull in front of him. He's in the back cargo compartment and we're tearing down the street in five seconds flat.

"Merrimac to Boulder Avenue," Ro tells Alex. When he's doing anything related to his job as a cop, the rabbit in him seems to disappear and he sounds like his former self, except for the slight lisp caused by the change in his jawline. "We can get on I-42 from there. I think once we're on the highway, we should be relatively safe. It's the surface streets where I think most of the mayhem will be."

We're going way too fast for comfort as we fly down suburban streets. By the look of things, many people got to their homes yesterday before their metamorphosis began. They must have wandered out of their homes at some point last night. There's a lot of carnage on our formerly quiet suburban streets.

"Just a guess, but I'm thinking those with a partner or a roommate managed to maintain more of their humanity than those living alone," Alex says. He must realize where he'd be right now if we hadn't cuffed him to the radiator. Or rather, maybe he realizes where we'd be right now if we hadn't cuffed him—dead.

Although, look at that lion couple Chaska just shot. Having a mate didn't calm them down or help them keep their human self-control.

Even though I don't want to look, I can't tear my gaze from the absolute havoc in the streets. There are dead bodies, most of them mutated, littering yards and thoroughfares. Some of the prey animals, like Ro are wandering aimlessly, almost as if they want to get eaten and put out of their misery.

There's very little evidence of gunfire, although I've heard a few shots in the distance. Perhaps people are too deeply affected to maintain enough of a semblance of their former selves to fire a weapon.

"I think having you as family saved me from a terrible fate," Alex murmurs as he swerves around a fight in the middle of the street. There were no guns, no knives, simply five animal-people in a clump trying to eat each other.

During a relatively safe moment, Alex and Roman change places in the front seat. Ro took evasive driver training on the force and his ease behind the wheel is evident the moment we get moving again.

Although we've been clipping along at a high rate of speed, blowing through intersections where the lights are still working no matter what color they are, we're still in danger.

Right before we enter the highway, something heavy falls on us from an overpass. A chimpanzee-man strikes our hood, then slides against our windshield. His round reddish eyes look at each of us with menace until Ro jerks the car first right then left, managing to toss the guy onto the pavement.

We all let loose an expletive, but no one says anything else.

I spend one moment wondering who we are, who I am. From a law-abiding citizen one day to cavalierly watching—and approving—destruction the next. I'm not proud of my metamorphosis, but I've changed as much as any of my guys. I don't feel good about my behavior, but let's face it, above all else, we're hardwired to live. At any cost.

The highway looks like something out of an apocalyptic movie. Cars are just abandoned, some with their doors yawning open.

"I imagine some people's change came on when they were driving home. Perhaps they forgot how to drive. Just went feral and walked in whatever direction caught their fancy," Alex observes.

There are furry mounds on the median. I guess some of the mutants didn't get far.

If driving conditions were normal, we'd be three hours from our cabin. It was one of the perks of a four-income household. We decided to buy it just as we made all our decisions since becoming a foursome—democratically.

For a good six months, we toured dozens of properties within a 200-mile radius. Finally, we bought a fixer-upper on sixty acres. We could have gotten a better house with less land, but we wanted acreage. This kind of scenario—well, not this crazy, but a dystopian future—had been in my mind when we made that decision. Although I never spoke those fears out loud, I wonder if my mates had similar unvoiced concerns.

Only a few weeks after the closing, I lost my job. Well, losing it isn't the right word. I was forced out of it. Because of my lost income, we never got to the fixer-upper part of the plan.

"Now that we're out of the city," I say, "does anyone have thoughts on what we're going to do when we reach our cabin?"