31

Within seconds of the announcement, half the moviegoers rush the exit, packing through the single door, screams of panic negating any direction from the manager.

"Everyone is running to the lobby, but that's where the riot is happening," Vivian says, a look of confusion and worry on her face. One of the patrons bounds through the front exit, and a stream of sudden light fills the area around the door. In that brief period when the door is open, you spot cars racing by and people running and screaming, and you hear the discord of many sirens.

You leave your seat and scramble through the narrow aisle. An elderly couple sits at the end of the next row, their faces fear-washed. In the back of the theater, two groups scuffle while others push their way through the lone exit. Near the front exit, an all-too-calm woman coaxes three young children to sit down, though they moan and cry to leave.

You rush down the sloped floor, throw the front exit door open, and step into the brisk air, surrounded by the sounds of mayhem. Your mind has trouble focusing upon one thing as a thousand scenes play out at once. People attacking others. Cars slamming into pedestrians as they speed out of the parking lot. Police calling out orders. A helicopter soaring overhead. A news van overturned and ablaze. Everyone running and screaming.

"There's my car!" Vivian yells above the clamor. She tears past you, keys in hand, heading to a red sedan parked in the nearest section. Somehow, she doesn't spot the figure a few car lengths to her left—a man, but not still a man. His arms are angled, and his head is tilted back like he's basking in the sun, but his mouth is open and trembling with a rubbery tongue stretched beyond his lips. His long sweater hangs over skeletal, poked-out limbs, and his khakis are frayed and dirt-sodden. On your right, your car sits at the end of a column.

"Luth, let's go," Vivian says, though she doesn't notice the stranger racing towards her.