(Untitled)
It only took one step -- it was more like a stumble, actually, over a crack in the sidewalk -- to trigger the blinding flash and deafening sound that sent John Fitzgerald Byers crashing to the ground.
He thought it was a bomb, and it might as well have been.
Now, his heart is pounding an irregular rhythm against his chest and his breath is shallow, ( Read more... )
He thought it was a bomb, and it might as well have been.
Now, his heart is pounding an irregular rhythm against his chest and his breath is shallow, ( Read more... )
Comments 35
Washington, D.C. is - well, was - a major city.
The fact that there's a survivor there, sitting on the steps of the Smithsonian, is cause for mild interest. There wasn't last week.
"Hey," she says, walking around the corner of the building as though she didn't just teleport into the city from New York.
"You okay?"
He doesn't look it.
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It's been three days.
Shocked at finally seeing a sign of life, Byers stands on weak legs and says, voice hoarse: "What happened?"
He doesn't look like he's slept, and his suit is covered in dust. His normally neatly combed hair is a mess and his beard is only a tiny bit longer than usual, but it's enough to bother him.
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That might be an answer. It also might be a comment on his state of being.
It's probably both, actually.
"Never mind what happened here. What the fuck happened to you?"
There's a few houses in this city with habitable basements. Marie 'squints' at the closest one - a slight tilt of her head is the only visible indication - and beckons to Byers. "C'mon," she says. "This way - I think I saw somebody leave some canned food stashed in a deserted house. God, you look like you've been awake for days."
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"Why -- why is everything --"
He glances over his shoulder at the ruins of the Smithsonian.
"My father and I used to come here all the time when I was young," he says, voice almost a whisper.
"Is it like this everywhere?" he asks, looking back to the woman.
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