Walk, step, step, walk.
The stumbling . . . the stumbling steps he took afforded Mark's webbed feet, outfitted in sneakers, little purchase on the pavement below.
Walk, step, stumble, walk.
It was important to note the creatures on the street – his education had been certain of that. Wolf. Bear in uniform. Feline of some kind.
Mark’s outfit was stained. Stained with the embrace of . . . the redness . . . the redness of something as red as blood.
Well, it was blood. Mark could hardly think straight, let alone come up with an appropriate metaphor for bloodstains right now. Damn good thing he’d decided to wear his red sweater today, too, because-
Stumble!
Shit. That one had been bad. He was walking down a street without that many people on it, but still, he could feel he was drawing their eyes. Which was funny, because his artwork had always been terrible.
There you go. Metaphor. Kind of.
Arachnid. Parrot. A . . . well, he actually didn’t recognize that one. The hell was that thing? He’d have to look it up.
Exits, exits, where were the exits? Well, he was on a street. A military checkpoint lay far up ahead, but his ID would check out. At least, it should. Behind him was the highway, but that was way, way, down there. Side streets led onto . . . more, bigger streets. A city was funny like that, wasn’t it? All of it, buildings, manholes, streets, lights, repeating itself. Like a giant copier.
Mark inhaled sharply. On a serious note, he had lost a lot of blood and he knew that. Still, though, his current goal was far too important to abandon. Stopping for just a moment, Mark leaned into a doorway, peeling aside the locked laptop bag he held at his side. Beneath it, the gash in his outfit stared at him, like that big canyon on the 4th moon that he’d learnt about in College. How long was the canyon? 1000 miles? Yeah, sure. Mark had a 1000-mile gash in his side.
And if he didn’t make it to the SH, he’d be dead. Well, presumably so. Mark didn’t know that for sure, but he was pretty certain. So he kept walking. Kept stumbling.
That side street would do nicely for the running-from-pursuit business.
And goodness, why the hell did it have to be so hot here? It was hot, and it was DRY hot. Mark hated those combinations. His water-resistant fur remained itself dry, but underneath that, he was sweating, his skin slick. Which was remarkable, because Mark NEVER found himself sweating.
Mark stumbled again, and distantly, he thought he heard somebody ask if he was okay. He couldn’t make it. He realized that now. But he couldn’t go to a hospital, either.
Exits? Suddenly, they were all gone. Mark’s hazy vision afforded him a view of none. His mind rode on a cloud, up, up, up, away from his body. He could hardly think anymore.
Red panda. Wolf . . . winged wolf. Dragon.
Hardly able to think, Mark couldn’t . . . process.
He stumbled up to the trio of creatures.
My, my . . . it appears . . . the weather is lifting. Clouds . . . the cloud with his mind carried . . . him away.
He was only ever so vaguely aware of his hands slapping the pavement as he tried . . . catching himself. Like a push-up. But push-ups never hurt this bad, why did it have to hurt so bad? . . .