Chris felt all of it. The cracking, the tearing, the crying and the dying and the fear, pungent and mortal, all of it burst into his head as the men were torn apart by the monster. He screamed, fell to his knees, clutched his head with tears streaming from his eyes. One man was afraid when she tore at his throat, afraid to die - another was sad, very sad, because he had never seen the Eiffel Tower. One was guilty, because his son wouldn't be able to sleep without someone to read him bedtime stories. These feelings, these images, were the last things that would ever pass through the minds of those men - and now Chris would forevermore be the keeper of their dying days.

He struggled to his feet and kept running, trying to shut out the pain as he had tried so often to before. It was a losing battle, but he could at least ignore it for now. Most days, he hated ignoring other people's pain; it felt selfish, irresponsible. But he needed to focus now - he needed to get to the stash of supplies he'd hidden, the little place he'd carved for himself during his short time in this city. There, he could think, he could rest, and the creature wouldn't be able to kill any more innocents.

He was, of course, quite certain the place would be empty. Who ever went to train stations these days?