Let me tell you what it feels to be possessed. You are riding shotgun in your own body.
And a wall appears.
You cry, cover your face with your hands. Yet the wall comes closer.
You plead to the driver to do something, anything.
But the guy at the wheel is a Nascar junkie and all he does is hit the pedal to the metal.
Combat!
Great Tiger took the wheel, and he cared little for limits.
His first speed bump was a blade hand to the latino's arm. From my position in the back of my mind I could diagnose it: broken ulna and radius.
Declawed.
Great Tiger stepped inside her personal space, and before the shock could register in her face, my clawed hands dug in her throat. I saw her eyes across a red veil and she was scared.
Time slowed down as my arm retracted with a piece of her. Inside my bloody claws I could see her larynx. She opened her mouth to scream but only a voiceless wail came out.
Scum.
The large redhead reacted just in time to rear back a haymaker. My footing flowed inside his non existent guard. Crouched and sprang upwards with a cross slash. I could see the fake nurse innards beyond layers of fat. I became sick as my clawed hands ascended, slashing his body from left hip to right collarbone.
Trash.
In my peripheral sight, a third nurse cocked a shotgun.
Great Tiger crouched low on all fours. I fastened my proverbial seatbelt.
The nurse raised his face in time to see me pouncing on him. My fingers sunk in his ribcage, claws collapsing both lungs in one swift move.
He was dead before his knees touched the ground, and with a forward roll, we gained on the fleeing vehicle.
The wheels spat grass and swerved hard right.
Fool.
A roundhouse kick lurched the ambulance on its side, wheels moving freely with no real purchase to escape.
Great Tiger walked, no, stalked around the downed ambulance. A panicked survivor stopped his attempts to free the seatbelt.
-"MercyMercyyyyMERCYYYYY...pleeeeease...mercy."