A little later, I’m heading west down one of the major roads that flows out of Chicago. Other than distancing myself from the shrinking perimeter, I don’t have a real aim yet. I know I need to find a portal station. That much is obvious. Though I’ll be honest: my brain isn’t firing on all cylinders. Every new data point that’s hit me in the last twenty minutes or so has just coalesced into one long, high-pitched, tinnitus-style eeeeeeeeee. Also I’m kinda tipsy. Oops.

Is it strange, I wonder, to feel more comfortable when society’s impending doom is no longer impending? The battle for sanity is over. Now it’s just the battle. This must be what doomsday preppers love so much about the end-days. The charade of life is over. No more subtlety, no more pretext. The struggle is the struggle, and that's all there is. There’s something calming about that. It’s cathartic, I suppose. I’ve been given a purpose, an easy answer: Find the mysterious portal station, and don’t die in the process. It’s simple. Clean. All that pretense just stripped away.

So, west it is. The rest I’ll figure out as I go.

I don’t usually travel this way. It’s nicer than my neighborhood. It’s cleaner, with freshly watered flowers and shimmery glass windows. Every storefront has a bespoke display sans the prison-worthy metal bars. It’s actually rather surreal. With the end of the earth out of sight, the world looks and feels normal. The weather’s fine. Birds are still tweeting, the sun is still shining.

The power is still on too, though I have to figure that’ll cut out sooner than later. Without a nearby plant, the substations are probably just running on fumes. Then again, I’m completely pulling that out of my ass. It could be magic. Whatever the case, once that goes, I think the suburbs will get a whole lot nastier.

For now, there’s only one sign that anything is amiss, and that’s the looting. Like I said, I’m in a more upscale area now - think $8 lattes and yoga over cheap beer and sweatpants. But that doesn’t stop people from a little mid-apocalyptic burglary.

Every time I pass a row of stores, I spot people hurdling through shattered windows, hauling armfuls of supplies back to their idling sedans. I have to say it’s weird seeing people in this neighborhood ignore the pilates club and spa to raid the Jimmy John’s. That’s the real sign times have changed.

I imagine it’s worse on whatever floating rock’s got the bulk of Chicago. All those millions of people. Here though, it’s oddly quiet. If anyone is screaming or yelling, I can’t hear it.

It’s strange to think I’ll never go home again. Not like my apartment was anything special. Years ago, I rented a place right by the lakefront. The living room windows captured the glistening blue water like a magic portrait, unchanging save for the occasional sailboat. If that had been my life this morning, I’d be handling this a whole lot differently. Lucky me to have a life so shit.

I’m just a few blocks now from the Des Plaines River. My countdown is at 19 hours and change. I’ve been walking for a couple miles at most. How in the world am I suppose to cover 10 square miles in less than a day? I don’t even know what the portal station looks like. The voice didn’t give us any clues. For all I know, it’s hiding in a port-a-potty.

And what happens if we don’t find it? “Reconstitution.” I don’t know what it means. Of course, seeing as one of the options is death, I have to imagine it’s at least mildly worse.

This is ridiculous. I can’t wander around aimlessly for 20 hours. There has to be another way.

There it is. Screaming. I hear screaming. Guttural, bone-chilling, apocalyptic screams caught in the wind. I whip my head around. Where is it coming from? I see maybe a dozen people on this block. They’ve got their heads up. They’re looking around. They hear it too but-

A young woman tears out of an alley. Her hair is matted in blood, red streaks running down her face. She trips, spins, keeps running. I’ve never seen anyone run like that. No rhythm, no effort, just sheer terror driving her forward at a pace she can’t keep.

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People begin to take her lead. They half-walk, half-jog away, glancing back, trusting her fear without knowing what horror lurks behind them.

Someone peeks into the alley. He throws his hands up and… holy shit.

A flurry of black wings peels around the corner and descends onto the man standing there. In an instant, his body is enveloped in a swarm of frantic fluttering. His legs give out. They’re limp, his feet dangling at useless angles, but he doesn’t fall. Something holds him in place.

His body jerks and swings. Blood spatters the pavement. They’re eating him alive.

The tangled blur of leathered wings continues to feast as more flying creatures burst from the alley. Then the monsters break apart. They’re like bats, only three times the size. One of them tackles a fleeing woman to the ground, wings beating, claws raking her back. Another sinks its talons right into her head as its teeth tear strips from her scalp.

The rest flow into the street. They’re coming.

I don’t know when I started running, but the world is moving past me, and I can’t. Fucking. Run. In slippers. I kick one off, little bunny ears flapping. The other I can’t shake loose. I’m going to die. I’m going to die because I left the apartment this morning in stupid, stupid slippers. I can’t run faster than countless flying monsters. I can’t run faster than everyone else. I’m the little antelope calf in the documentaries limping in the back of the herd. I’m easy prey. Any second now, I’m going to feel the sharp pain of daggered talons and it’ll be over. They’re going to get me. Oh god, I’m going to die.

Think. Think. Think. I need to get off the street. What do I always say when someone’s fleeing a rolling boulder or a flying arrow in movies? Stop running in a straight line. Get out of the way, asshat. I need to get out of the way.

I feel a rush of air at my back, the steady beat of wings whispering against the hairs of my neck. It’s right there, it’s right there, it’s right there.

I throw myself to the right and crash onto my side. Black flashes past me. It missed. It missed! But I feel it near. It’s making another pass.

My head pulses in pain. I hit something. I don’t know what. Wincing, I glance up, and some crazy lady stares back. It’s my reflection. It’s my face reflected in a glass door.

A door!

God, please be open. I scramble to my feet, my hands fumbling for purchase. I find the handle and pull. The door flings open. I dive inside. Then I whip around, grab the door, and yank it closed, straining against whatever stupid mechanism that keeps it from slamming.

Like a vacuum, the door seals shut, and all the screaming and screeching and flapping and crying goes silent. I turn the lock.

I take a long, deep breath. I can feel my pulse in my chest, my temples, my stomach. I’m too young to have a heart attack. I think.

Where am I? The room is small. Fluorescent lights illuminate a stark black desk in the center with dimly-lit corridors on either side. A sign across the desk reads “Vantage Crossfit”. Behind the reception is a white wall with letters in all caps: “BE BETTER HUMANS.”

It’s like fleeing from hell right into purgatory.

A mass thuds against the door. Shit. The monster is back, wings and talons thrashing against the glass. I can see it clearly now. And I’ll say this: I’m not a fan. Not a bit. There is no reason for this unholy abomination to exist, and I want it gone.

It has a pair of wings, each made of veiny charcoal skin stretched across its bones like a bat, but bigger. Much bigger. It’s got a wingspan of maybe six feet across. It bashes the door with feathered birdlike legs, the kind that bend backwards at the knee, with viciously pointed talons. And then there’s the body. It’s a fish. An oily black, scaled fish with beady red eyes and a gnashing jaw filled with rows and rows of needle sharp teeth.

As I stare in horror, there’s a dizzying tingle in my head. Instinctively, I focus on the monster, and words appear.

Flying Piranha (Lv 2)

Native to nowhere, this bizarre figure is an amalgamation of three standard Earth animals: the Indiana Bat, the Ferruginous Hawk, and the Redeye Piranha. It has no predators and its only prey is you. There is no historical or mythological significance to this enemy type. It is simply among the first creatures your planet chose to dish out. Don’t worry: We’ll be responsible for the rest.

The glass wobbles. It’s not going to hold.

Slipping the wooden spoon from my pocket, I drop my bag and raise the only weapon I’ve got over my head like a baton. More text appears in the center of my vision, but I ignore it, and it swipes off to the side.

I feel like an idiot.

I don’t think I’m ready to die.