Seven nights before the end of October, and Walter already went to his knees to pray for a mass bug extinction. Surprisingly enough, Oregan autumns were just as mosquito-filled as summer in New York.

It was around a high noon that his day really began to suck, much like the previous five days since he left Las Vegas. For the past week, his rather rude wake-up call would be three old women screaming and yelling. It was not until day three that he realized they were saying anything: "You helped kill them. Vengeance."

Walter's life became run, hide, rinse and repeat. A complete cycle of life and death—literally. So far, seven nights before the end of October, the screaming of those women had not made their daily appearance.

Walter needed supplies. His collection of firewood had depleted fast over the last few days—maybe he used too much. It would not have been the first time. How fitting, really, that his story would start and stop in a forest, surrounded by wood, unable to start a single spark.

He scanned his surrounding, making sure that there was nothing lurking near by. He got up and got a good whiff of himself. Nasty—he smelled like death, and he knew what death smelled like. It burned his nose hairs. The luxury of a bubble bath and rose scented water eluded him.

The woods weren't too bad. Yeah, that was a lie. They absolutely sucked. He couldn't stand it, but he was used to it. He was safe away from those women, away from the noise, away from civilization. In fact, he kind of liked it away from civilization. He could think and study, maybe even practice. The world was so different from what he last remembered. It seemed scary, busy, he felt like he was a man out of time.

Walter smacked a tree branch out of the way, careful of where he stepped. He had had the misfortune of stepping on a hedgehog before; he would not like to have that experience again. His backpack bounced across his back as he walked. He looked up at the sky. The sun burned high in the sky, shedding midday light into the world; clouds parted the sky into thirds, the trees cutting them off at the throat. He brought his head back down and ducked under some shade.

Walter didn't know what to do anymore. He was supposed to get firewood, but he couldn't help but think about a good bath. He got distracted, which wasn't like him in these circumstances. It was hot, his mosquito bites itched, and he smelled. The shade of the tree was cool, the grass was soft, and Walter was ready for a nap.

Getting up might have been the hardest thing he'd done.

Eventually, he came across a pond. He silently thanked the gods and began to take off his clothes and spear. He dipped his feet in the water. Surprisingly, it was warm, so he slid into the water. Warm water ran all over his sweat-covered neck. He laid his head against the shore and closed his eyes.

It was nice, peaceful, so of course it wouldn't last very long. But... Walter couldn't help it. It had been rough five days, and he wanted to take advantage of the moment. And it was quickly ruined.

Walter was only in the pond for about three good minutes when he heard distant flapping. He hadn't even opened his eyes when things that weren't birds came at him, screaming like something damned. He knew what they were—he could call them by name—the Furies.

They carried flaming whips, curling smoke, undoubtedly steaming in the water. Walter immediately rushed out of the pool, with time only to grab what was necessary—his pants, his jacket, and of course, his backpack. He threw them on as fast as he could and began to run. He knew that they'd catch up with him eventually. His necklace bounced on his bare chest.

"You helped killed them," they screamed. "Their blood is on your hands. Vengeance will be served."

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Walter yelled back at them. His pleads wouldn't stop them from chasing him, he knew, but he felt the need to be honest. He'd never killed anyone important enough for the Furies.

"Vengeance," they screamed in response. It sounded like they were gaining up on him fast.

Think, Walter, think, he thought. How do I slow them down? A wild idea popped in his head. He held out his hand—hard to do when running in a forest and tripping over roots and wet leaves from the autumn rain.

"Globus igneus," he said. A spark ignited in his hand and flames began to grow. The flames started to bend anto the shape of a ball and the flaming ball grew to the size of a softball. The heat was intense, but he wasn't getting burned. Without looking behind him, he threw the fireball in the direction of the Furies. From the horrible screeching of one Fury, Walter would say he hit one of them.

"You destroyed our sister!" yelled the two remaining Furies. "May more vengeance reign down on your soul."

"Oh, please," yelled Walter. He skidded to a halt in the forest, leaves making him lose his balance slightly. "You'll just return in like a day or two like you always do." The Furies screamed wordlessly in response.

Walter edged towards the end of the woods. Glancing behind him, he saw a small hill leading to a highway, which meant people, which meant safety. Of a sort.

He rushed down the hill into oncoming traffic, trying to avoid the cars, swerving and honking and cursing this young boy. Stupid fifteen year old running out into open traffic trying not to be killed by flying, leathery bat women.

He crossed the median and hoped that meant he was safe. As he hit the other side of the forest, gravel skidding under his bare feet, and he knew he was safe until the Furies found a way across the highway.

A car stopped right in front of Walter. He immediately rushed over to it and pounded on the window. It had worked back in Las Vegas, where the people were drunk or high on drugs and more willing to let some dirty kid into their car. Oregon might call for more desperate measures.

"Kid," the driver said. "What the hell is the matter with you? What, you want to get killed?"

"Mente dedere meae!" cried Walter, his voice tight with panic. In the reflection the rainy window provided him, he could see his eyes glowing purple. Walter felt drained energy. He wanted to stop and take a breather for a minute, but he couldn't. The driver's eyes started to glow purple as well—a sure sign he was going under.

"I'm at your command," the driver replied, his voice sleepy and contemplative. "What do you need?" Walter was glad the car had pulled over to the side of the road, so they weren't hit by more cars.

"I need you to drive me—anywhere! Wherever you're going," Walter said, all in a rush, the slurred words spilling out of his mouth. He placed his open palm on the glass in a gesture of desperation. "Please hurry!"

The Furies screamed from the treeline behind him. They cracked their whips, but didn't seem to be able to cross the highway. Maybe they were scared of becoming yellow dust floating in the wind caused by cars rushing past each other at a hundred miles an hour.

"Where do you want to go?" the driver asked. He unlocked the doors to the car, and Walter slid in the backseat—leather, like the Furies. He tried not to touch it with his bare hands or exposed skin.

Walter looked up at the man, still shocked at the kind of power he was able to wield. "What's your name?" he asked breathily.

"Bret?" Bret asked in return, his voice loopy.

"Okay. Bret," Walter began, taking in deep breaths."I would like you to take me as far away from Oregon as you possibly can. Please."

"Okay," said Bret sleepily. He put the car in drive. The AC was on full blast, the radio was playing quiet jazz. He liked jazz music for some odd reason. The lull of cars rushing by outside was… soothing.

Walter was tired and drained of energy, leading him to finally do what he couldn't do for seven days. He closed his eyes and slipped into sleep.