Social media was boiling over, spilling its bounds in frothing tweets and shouted anecdotes for answers or aid. There was very little new information to be gleaned, it did however seem that he was not the first to figure out the spending of ether or the supernatural consequences of such an action.

A newly invigorated James had before gone in search of, and found, his phone. That small slip of metal and glass once more connecting him to the modern nervous system of an interconnected and recently wounded humanity.

He unconsciously reached back with his uninjured hand and began to massage the points on his lower back into which small nails of power had been hammered. He griped silently still that Survival felt not at all as pleasant or accommodating as Vitality.

Thankfully James hadn’t ceded his rational mind yet enough to the hivemind of youth to make his first life or death instinct the want to check twitter and, before doing so, he had, had the good sense to attempt to call the police, though be it with panicked, fumbling fingers. He had received little more than that metallic voice and irritating facsimile of kindness so common in automated messaging, it had informed him that the line was busy and he was to be put on hold.

James had hung up soon after, his actions a mixture of doubt that law-enforcement would ever get around to putting the sheer criminality and queerness of this night back to order and a diva like and headstrong rage that the police had neglected their duty to protect him.

He scanned the roiling sea of messages from a headless society as it waddled drunkenly in an attempt to regain its footing and normality before, and with a disbelieving pause, did he read a message from the government. Not directly though, leave it to journalists to neglect a crisis when in the pursuit of a good story.

It was at first a small clip of Scott Morrison, flanked by soldiers, bull-dog face sweating bullets and dry mouth trying not to stutter as he declared martial law and called up the Army Reserves. Yet it wasn’t that which had made James nearly shit his pants. No, that most vaunted honour was reserved for Premier Palaszczuk who, after spouting several paragraphs of waffle about increased ‘crisis density’ in certain areas had sliced Queensland into a Frankenstein patchwork of temporary ‘no-go zones’ for law enforcement, it was a way to save important bodies thought the soberly analytical part of his brain. The lizard quadrant however simply saw much of the north of Brisbane highlighted in the stark red of containment rather than evacuation, the sight of which felt like an executioner’s blade on his neck.

James made to throw his phone, extinguishing its blue lighted death warrant and dashing its electronic brains against the far wall. Fingers only remembering the very real and door shredding threat lying languid several metres away from him and closing down upon the device in the final seconds of his arc.

He drew his knees close to his chest and let an angular face fall upon them, stifling a sob. Help wouldn’t be coming.

He turned his phone back on and re-examined the map. Revelling briefly in the knowledge that he was on the northernmost edge of his specific bureaucratically assigned coffin.

Gunshots sounded in a staccato rhythm a small distance away, their distinct crack cutting through the din of muffled screams and bloodthirst before pre-eminent in the city. They were creating a perimeter thought James bitterly, one he was on the wrong side of.

He reached up and wiped salty, angry tears from stained cheeks and sniffed lightly as, with arthritically cracking knees, did he rise to his feet.

“Fuck it, I’ll save myself.”

A time later saw James, still squinting hard against the darkness of his room, crouched in front of a slid open window and cutting with a ponderous slowness the fly screen behind. Recoiling and looking back each time a was thread cut and it let out the miniscule, popping death scream of its severing.

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It didn’t seem as though he had been heard, yet.

Resolved as he was to escape from his neighbourhood James had no little intention of once more engaging in mortal combat with those hardened green knots of calloused rage outside his room, he had lost enough finger for one day. Instead deciding the safer option would be to slip around the side of the house, which his window opened onto, and slink unseen toward and behind the protection of the Australian Army or police, whoever the fuck was maintaining the perimeter.

Survival indeed.

While thinking on the subject James became increasingly miffed, both just generally as was his nature but also specifically at his most recent choice of ethereal expenditure. For survival, as opposed to the immediate and rejuvenating splendour that was vitality, gave no instant or apparent benefit, he felt no stronger, moved no faster, saw no further nor healed any quicker. And while he retained a modicum of trust in the wind’s choice, he was sure hoping it hadn’t railroaded him into choosing a utility skill.

The final thread sliced clean with a whimper and the gash lay open, allowing him entry once more to the night sky.

James hesitated before stepping through, hand wavering before the entrance, reluctant to pull it open and ease himself out. He closed his eyes and scrunched up his face, taking in a series of deep inhales. Then, fist clenched tight then unwound, he silently continued his escape.

The house, perched as a crown atop a hill as it was, had its back half hefted upon ancient wooden stilts, the back most portion hovering a good story off the ground whilst the foremost being naught more than a bungalow.

James’ window was in between these two extremes, straddling the midpoint of the house and, dangling from it as he was, his feet barely missed the ground, toes reaching for it like Jesus in the Sistine Chapel.

He scrunched his eyes and dropped the final few centimetres the feeling of falling, despite the puny distance, still serving to make his heart pump. The wet earth squelched under his weight as he realised upon landing that he had once again, in his haste, forgotten to put on shoes, at least he brought the knife he thought whilst also wondering if his death grip would ever be prised off it.

“Fuck me.” He hissed, arms flailing petulantly and toes wiggling in the rain drenched grass. He looked back at the window, hovering barely out of reach, there was no turning back now.

The window was, thankfully, on the side closest to the containment line, lying barely a kilometre away from where the occasional gunshot still blared and muffled orders sounded. He made his way over to the fence, looking appraisingly at its shoulder height blockade to his freedom.

Walking the street was a non-starter, his stomach still churned with images of green faces and the wicked delight upon them as they tore across open ground. Fence hopping however, though loud and difficult, would at least shield him from view. And with such a glowing endorsement did he clench his jaw tight and hoist himself up the precarious wooden palisade.

It shook dangerously in place as James put his weight on it and he was man enough to admit the groaning and shuddering wood puckered his anus more than a little. But, and with an easing, molasses like slowness, did he plop down into his neighbour’s yard, crouching low in the shadow of the lime green swing set which dominated the scene.

The glass sliding doors which opened into said yard were shattered and, among the debris, was a fresh, distinct and black glowing in the moonlight trail of blood leading into the dark of the house and off into a side corridor.

They had nearly made it out thought James. he continued on mute.

The second fence was easier than the first and yet made the hairs on his neck stand to even higher of a salute then earlier for from within this house was no blood trail, but instead the distinct muffled grunting and quiet crashing of objects tell-tale of a struggle. At least it sounded as such to James.

He walked in a low gaited half crouch across most of the yard, eyes pointedly averted from the now fever pitch approaching sounds from within the house.

He reached the fence and placed his hands on it, clenching them tight in an attempt to ward of the insistent memory worming its way to the forefront of his mind. The memory of being looked down upon by hungry eyes and wanting to scream for help yet being unable. He turned back to the house, then back to the fence.

He spun in a headstrong rage, hoping he would make it to the violence in time to avoid second thoughts and better sense. He found the backdoor unlocked as he marched up to it and walked through. It opened into a large dining room, the purpose made evident by the table and chairs. He paid them little mind though as the noise beckoned him down a dimly lit corridor from off to the left, paintings shattered and knocked off of its length. His steps slowed as he walked.

He slithered through the walkway like a bad smell, slick with sweat and knuckles fit to burst from his grip as he came closer to the pushed half shut door behind which the strained grunting of an obvious fight was coming from.

James paused before the door, another thought invading his mind before he could burst through the threshold, the memory of a mangled stump and the searing pain of fangs crunching through bone. He had, had enough time for second thoughts.

“Fuck this.” He breathed out the tension in his body as his steps reversed and eased him back away from the door, eyes ever trained on it, glued there in shame, his face hot and flushed with its taint.

He made it about halfway out the corridor before his foot caught on one of the now unframed photographs lying haphazard on the floor and lost all semblance of traction. He clattered to the ground and in his brief moment of flight before doing so he thought he could almost hear God cackle. James thudded hard against the ground, feeling as though he had cracked his teeth and, in the wake of his crash, he heard the violence from within the room pause and he swore he could also hear the green bastards in there turn around to face the door.

Then he most definitely heard the quickened and approaching slapping of small feet on wooden floors. It seemed he was to be fighting after all.