Shrugging off the odd quiet of the city and the strange sight of the runners, Jenna went back to her frantic routine. She pulled on a pair of slightly wrinkled jeans, wrestled her short blonde hair into a messy ponytail, and grabbed her worn, navy-blue jacket. She had a life to rush back to, a job to lose, and a headache to ignore.
Keys, wallet, phone. Done.
She was out the door and clattering down the three flights of ancient stairs in under a minute. The building lobby was silent, the air thick and unnerving.
Stepping onto the street, the unsettling stillness hit her with full force.
There were no cars moving, and the air was dead.
Then she saw it.
About fifty feet away, a pale blue sedan had smashed head-on into a lamp pole. The front of the car was accordioned, the pole bent at a sickening angle. Jenna started to jog toward it, adrenaline kicking in, ready to offer help.
But she stopped dead.
Inside the shattered driver's-side window, two figures were locked in a horrifying, silent struggle. The passenger, a heavyset man, was hunched over the driver, his back heaving with rapid, jerky motions. Jenna could see the driver's head—or what was left of it—lolling back against the seat, obscured by a sickening amount of bright, arterial blood spattering the glass.
The heavyset man suddenly pulled back, his face—or what she could see of the pale, contorted mess—stained crimson. He wasn't helping; he was devouring the driver.
Jenna's breath froze in her chest. Her mind refused to process the image. No. No, that's impossible. It's a fight. He's... he's in shock.
Her denial was short-lived. A few houses down, a side door burst open with a crash, and a woman sprinted out, screaming a terrified, high-pitched wail that was abruptly cut off by a sob. She was followed by two men, running with wild, panicked eyes. They were running away from something.
Jenna turned her gaze back to the source of their terror: the open doorway. From the relative darkness, a figure emerged. It was a man in a tattered shirt, his movements slow, jerky, and unbalanced. He was limping, dragging one leg, his head twisted at an unnatural angle. He looked like he was desperately trying to stay upright, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides.
It was the limp that snapped her out of her shock. It was too unnatural. It was wrong.
The terror she had suppressed erupted in a cold, electric wave. She didn't scream. She didn't think. She ran.
She turned and sprinted down the middle of the street, the opposite direction of her bakery job, her mind fixed on one thing: get away.
The chorus of yells she had heard earlier was no longer distant; it was swelling all around her. Doors were slamming open. People were pouring out of apartment buildings, out of coffee shops, their faces universally etched with confusion, panic, and a primal, headlong fear.
Jenna was now part of a sudden, chaotic current of humanity, all running in the same direction, away from the core of the city.
Then, the sky tore open.
With a deep, roaring thrum that vibrated the air in her chest, a seemingly endless chain of military helicopters tore past overhead. They flew low, fast, and in a tight formation, their dark, purposeful silhouettes blocking out the morning light. They were all heading in the same direction everyone on the ground was running, a silent, military confirmation of the unthinkable.
What is happening? Jenna thought, her lungs burning, her feet pounding the pavement. She looked at the faces around her—some crying, some silent, all running towards an unknown safety in the distance. The world had gone mad, and all she knew was that she needed to survive it.