[color=ed1c24]	[h1] Joseph Ferrier [/h1][/color]

	[color=6ecff6][i]Her hair glowed like the sun, in white-gold curls, thick and deep. She stood in front of the window, transcendent beauty, clad only in a white silk robe, the cloth translucent in the morning light. She held a cigarette in one hand. Her breath smelled like coffee and smoke. Her skin smelled like lavender, and that perfume I like. Her skin was so soft. In that light, she was an angel, holding inside her blue eyes all the divine light of God-[/i][/color]

	Blood dripped from my forehead. More, from my nose. My right leg ached, a sharp flare of pain each time I tried to pivot my knee. My vision was blurry. My head swam, and I grasped, desperate, at straws of memory that slipped through my fingers like water.

	[i]Screaming.[/i] I thought, [i]there was screaming.[/i]

	But there had been more than screaming, [color=f7976a]had there not? [/color]There had been sirens, gunshots... And screaming. 

	There was fire and smoke, filling the air...

	But what happened before?

	I rolled over to examine my surroundings. My flask, reflecting the sun's white, smiling face, bore a wound from the day's ordeals, a bullet hole, perhaps a .22 or .32 calibre, stood, juxtaposed against the stainless steel. Whiskey poured from the puncture like blood from a wound, my little soldier slowly bleeding out in a Vancouver alley.

	[i]Why are there no passerby?[/i] But, maybe, there were, and I just hadn't noticed. Or, maybe there were none, because this was still a disaster site. Or maybe-

	Another scream. Piercing, female, mortal terror if I'd ever heard it. I forced myself to my feet. My knee threatened to buckle beneath me, and it ached like rain. 

	There were gunshots, light, rhythmic pops that denoted the offending weapon both semiautomatic and small-arms, likely a small calibre rifle or handgun. Then, there was another sound: a low, deep growl of a moan. It had the sound of a grazing animal, but bore the edge of a predator. And above it all, it sounded human, in a way.

	[color=f7976a]Another memory tore its way to the forefront of my mind[/color], of me, flashing my badge at several young men, standing on the sidelines-

	[i]The sidelines of what?[/i]

	Why, of the disaster, of course. I reached into my jacket for my gun. Surprisingly, it was still there. I was almost certain that someone had robbed me while I lay there. After all, I had no way of knowing just how long I'd been there... But judging from the time of day in my memory, it must not have been long.

	As I slipped my gun from its holster and racked the slide, the noises stopped. Not just the screaming. The moaning and the gunshots too. The latter gave two last little struggling pops, the universal sign for "Shooter Down". I kept my gun out, and checked the safety. "Red equals dead", I said to no one in particular, while I limped out onto...

	"Main street?" It was completely empty. "God damn..." 

	[color=f7976a]Then another memory hit me.[/color] TVs, stacked up in a grid, each displaying the same anchorwoman, each showcasing the same story, focused on 'seminecrotic reanimation'. But what had happened next?

	Fire. Smoke. A thrown bottle? A Molotov cocktail. A Molotov Cocktail through the window, and the electronics shop had burned. The man inside had been trapped-

	[i]Stay on target. What happened next?[/i]

	My boots crunched on broken glass like eggshells, the silent street serving to magnify my every noise-

	"WAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!" Someone charged straight through a nearby shop's glass door, the plate glass bending and bursting out like lethal glitter as a man's silhoutte cheese-grated itself on the doorframe. Brown blood gushed from the man's wounds like toothpaste, congealing in his veins. I had time for only one thought: [i]WHAT THE FUCK-[/i]

	Stinking, putrid flesh plowed into me, with all the weight of an obese linebacker focused behind two palms as they struck my chest and shoulder, fingers gripping my jacket as the man forced me to the ground. My hand struck the open grate on the sidewalk, rusted metal tearing a rude gash across my knuckles. The man went wild, all but foaming at the mouth, in an attempt to bite and even lick at the blood that bubbled up from my fist like a fucked-up fountain of youth.

	I could hear more moaning in the shop, the one this freak had torn out of. There was the sound of shuffling, something breaking as dozens of feet stepped onto it, the sickening [i]CRACK[/i] of a splintering bone-

	My bone. My cut arm. I screamed when a white flash of agony tore through my brain like Apollo's chariot. My left arm reacted instinctively, slugging a savage blow with my elbow across the man's jaw, throwing him face-first into a fire hydrant. He was unfazed, and kept ahold of my broken arm with his hands.

	My knife was swift, and my aim true. The blade sank into flesh, then a sudden give, as steel penetrated skull, and my attacker lay dead at my feet. No longer was my screaming in pain, but in fury, the "battle-rage" that Vikings liked to talk about. But the bodies shoved one another aside, peeling and tearing the flesh from their arms and faces as they pushed through their peers through the shattered door, glass drawing oozing slash-lines on their rotten skin.

	I had only enough time to curse my luck and recover my firearm. I ran. 

	I had two destinations in mind. The first, my apartment, on the corner of Majestic and Sterling. The second, my office, wherein lived a Mossberg 1014, with two hundred Ten-gauge shells that I most certainly was not allowed to have in this country. Ah well.

	[i]Once an American, always an American.[/i]

	Another memory: young men, familiar- [i]Bad men. Gang members.[/i] Stomping me. A boot in my ribs. Air Jordans dancing on my face. A baseball bat, maybe, or a piece of pipe, on my shoulders. Then, screaming. Them, screaming. I ran then, too, when I saw the hands. 

	The hands all over him. They pulled him down. They peeled him open. They felt around inside. I didnt see any of these things happen, as I was long gone. But I know that they did happen.

	The same fate that awaits us all. As I ran for the second time that day, so far as I could recall, a poem came to mind.

	[i]I am Oxymandias, king of kings.
	Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair.[/i]