18

Around the corner, you slip on fresh snow but regain your balance and rush to your bike chained up to a pole. The car sirens return as a bevy of helicopters soars low across the neighborhood. Random gunshots blast the air, mixed with mad howls and pain-filled yells. On the other side of the avenue stands a lone figure staring at you. His face is dark and peeling, with one eye bulging and malformed like he suffered a head wound. His back is craned but shoulders hunched, which makes his neck look elongated. The only normal feature of the man is a red hat. He totters toward you, though his torso twists to the side as if he moving in a diagonal line. He tilts his head back and opens his wide mouth, revealing a row of pronounced, angled teeth.

You grab the bike lock and jam your key inside, but of course, it slips out and falls to the ground. The snow envelopes the small piece of metal, and you drop down to pick it up. Red Hat bursts into a full sprint. The snow coating the ground is making your hands slippery. You lift the key and juggle it while your eyes stay locked on Red Hat only two house-lengths away. He howls; you slip the key into the lock and let the chain fall to the curb.

One house-length. You turn the bike and jump on. Your pedaling starts slow, and a deranged yelp slips from Red Hat's throat.

Twenty feet away. The bike streaks along the road, but you hear Red Hat growling just behind you and hard boots slapping on wet asphalt. You turn a corner and hit the avenue, and from the corner of your eye, you spot Red Hat run into oncoming traffic. Brakes squeal, a car crashes, glass breaks. Not looking back, you steer the bike around cars and pedestrians, all going in different directions. There is no escaping the sudden chaos of Chipper Ridge, and you can only think of one place you can go to be safe—home.