Daylight was wasting, and Ezra decided it was time to make for home. Well, what passed for 'home' these days, anyway. Sliding good Mister Gibbon into his bag and slinging it over his shoulder, he walked softly down the steps. Making his way north along the pavement he gave one last, longing look at the Art Institute. The structure seemed to be holding up quite well without maintenance, and he wondered idly just how long it would say standing. Another five years? Ten? Would it outlive Humanity? He certainly thought not. Humans had survived all kinds of horrific things- he was quite confident that [i]somebody[/i] would make it through alright. He hoped made it, too. Not that he was counting on it.

Cutting east across Millennium Park, Ezra set his eyes upon some of the glorious remains of old Chicago- Crown Fountain, Cloud Gate, Harris Theater. Upon reaching storied Lakeshore Drive, he struck north. He saw no evidence of monstrosities, and while pleasantly surprised, he was also rather bored. After passing some time in silence he began to sing softly to himself. It was a song of his youth- he recalled owning the album on vinyl at one point. Maybe.

“She said she was a magic mamma...” he began, atrociously off-key. She threw a mean tarot... She carried on without a comma... That she was someone I should know...”

And so on, for a several boring miles up the road. In time, he saw his destination looming ahead- Wrigley Field.

Ah, but suddenly his day was not so boring.

Up ahead, a little under one yards away, a bloated monstrosity stalked back and forth near an overturned hotdog cart. It had once been a human being, presumably. What remained of its clothes, a T-shirt and what might have been khaki shorts, clung to its massive frame. Its three arms were immensely unsettling. Ducking behind a truck, Ezra frantically drew his revolver from its holster. Double checking the cylinder- it was fully loaded- he swung it back into the frame and uttered a hurried Hail Mary. After taking a moment to steel his resolve he sprung to his feet.

“Coma commala, freak!”

Barrel thundering, he fired twice.

And missed. Dammit! Dammit!

Sighting its prey, the creature grunted loudly and charged headlong toward the former professor. Ezra, now very near to panicking, thumbed back the hammer and fired a third shot. And a forth. And a fifth. The monstrosity tumbled to the road. One of the bullets (he could not be sure which) had met its mark. Ezra heaved a heavy sigh of relief.

“Jesus,” he said aloud, still breathing rapidly, “Why am I such a God-awful shot?”

After taking a moment to empty the spent casings and reload, and another moment to search the monster's pockets [i](Hm, cellphone, quarters.. Hey look, a lighter!)[/i], he continued up the road to Wrigley Field. Finally passing through the gateway- and locking it behind him- and climbed up into the bleachers. Thankfully his cache of assorted junk, secreted under the seating, was untouched. Kneeling down, he brought forth a battery powered heating coil and great big hookah pipe.

After that excitement, he reasoned that he had earned another smoke.