I must look insane. I probably am insane. There's absolutely no way that what I'm seeing is real… because… because it can't be? Because it's not?

I'm in a city… I think. Yes, that part seems sure. The buildings are tall enough, old enough, and there are enough people of every walk of life rushing, screaming, crying past me to cement that fact down. It's the people that I can't place.

A man shoves open a door, flinging it into my face and knocking me down. Pain rockets across my nose, up to my skull, ringing. I shudder and hold my nose, vision blurred for a moment. When it's cleared, I spot the man shoving everything he owns- a lamp, a wailing child, a whisker, into a Ford Explorer. He's not looking at me. He's not alone.

People swarm around us, strained faces and red ears and snotty-nosed, holding their lives in their hands- I see a young hippie with an x-box and a wine opener; a body-builder holding a girl in a tutu under his arm, a math textbook in his other hand; an office woman with a gun and a laptop and a lover. The roads are clogged, some don't bother with them, changing it on the sidewalk, sprinting.

Any who bother to glance at me stumble away, but they don't point of stare or scream. Their eyes glaze over and they book it. For all the clamor, few seem truly phased by any of it. Only the children and the elderly put up a fuss, really. I overhear the comforts of the parents-

"We'll be back when we can, we're just going to Aunt Martha's-"

"Yes, it's a surprise trip to Disney World! Happy early Christmas!"

"We're going on an adventure! Can you believe that?"

-I shudder again. Blood drips down my palm as my nose gushes as I try to hold it together. I glance back at the building I just escaped, with its long, Gothic architecture and the gargoyles glaring down from the top, the giant clock, baring over us like a great judge ready to drop the gavel.

I need to get out of here. People don't run from nothing. I peel myself off the brick wall of the building, off the cement of the sidewalk. Without their support, gravity feels like a thousand-ton bell weight. I sway under it. My legs buckle and I fall forward again, this time scraping my knee. My limbs shake as if the storm that's coming is already here. I crawl to the nearest car, stuck in the traffic, and beat on the window.

"P-please," my voice cracks, and it take me a moment to regain my bearings, because is that really my voice, sounding like splintered like wood, breaking like eggs? "Help."

Whoever it is decidedly ignores me. The next three do, too. One only looks at me, for half a second at that, before pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. He tosses the rest of the pack out the window at me, along with the lighter, mumbles something about me needing them more than him. I wail as he rolls the window up.

I clutch the cigarette pack in my hands, eyes wild and teary, heart beating a thriller song in my chest as the car rolls forward, without me. I shake. I don't understand. I don't mean them any harm. Can't they see I'm helpless? That they can help me? That they should help me?

I stumble back, away from the road. One person, one of the side-walk runners, stops to ask for a cigarette. I glare at him, but there's no fire behind it, just sobriety cloaked in exhaustion trying to muster up the courage of anger. "Lungs."

He shrugs and gestures around us. "The world's gone mad again; who knows where home will be when this is all over? Eh. Home's wherever I plant my feet and decide to dig, that's what Pa always told me. Anyhow, nicotine and tar help in the meantime. What's a lung or two in this world?"

I sigh. I let him have one, there's only three in the pack left, two after this. I try to light it for him, but my hands shake too much. He helps me steady them, his hands warm over mine, until the deed is done. He calls me a good soul, I tell him not to play the lottery even though talking hurts my throat, he rolls his eyes and runs off again, tipping his hat at me.

The chaos of an evacuating city pulses around me. Sirens go off in the distance, and people pause, but not for long. The efforts pick up. The honks grow more desperate. I curl in on myself, clutching the cigarette pack to my chest.

I can't leave here. No one will take me. Can't run. Too weak. I need to find someplace- someplace with water, and food, and shelter- and bunker down. I hope it's not a hurricane. I bet it's a hurricane. I'm going to die here.

Shelter. I need shelter with strong, sturdy walls, and a bathroom, and food and water and warmth.

I rotate around, looking for any suitable place with guaranteed supplies. I see a gas station on the corner, a little store attached to it. Energy-drink advertisements coat the windows, and there's a sale on water and cheap, packaged pastries. I roll the cigarette package in my hand. Maybe I can trade?

Just something. Anything. Water. Food. Shelter.

I stumble towards it, my legs working more out of will than anything else, like a toddler. I hold my hands out to balance myself. People take notice of me now and give me a wide berth. I must look like death, dried blood on my chin and the top of my lip, on my hands and shirt, hair and eyes wild, walking like a zombie.

I fall once I open the door, the result of too much momentum and too little control. There's a click, the cock of a gun.

"I'm not losing my momma's business to this damn invasion or ya filthy looters, either. I stayed here the past one, and the one before that and that and that. Flinns ain't cowards, got Gotham in our bones. Hear me? I'm givin' you a chance to walk."

"I-I-" I peer up. My elbows shake as I try to lift myself off the ground, then fall again. I want to cry. "No, please… help. Please help."

I have a whole speech, in my head. Give me food. Drink. Perishable things, things people won't buy, cause the people will be all gone. I'll help clean, I'll work for a month for free, trade you my cigarettes, just feed me… it falls flat on my tongue. What I want to be words come out as eerie whimpers and whines.

Boots come into my line of vision. "Can't even do that, can ya: Walk?"

There's a stronger click, the click of a lock. The door gives a little jingle as the man does it. He steps over my quaking body, the slowly, the natural lights go dim; he's closing the blinds. This can't be good, either. My heart thumps in my ears, I try to pick myself back up again, this time making it to my knees.

He kicks my side, sending me tumbling back to the ground, this time belly-up. "You a ghost? Any kind of undead? Want my brains? I don't have any for you to take, if that's the case, and neither do my dog, he's the dumbest animal in the whole world."

The gun, a rifle, nudges my side. "No," I croak, eyes tearing up. He grins down on me. He's got a good set of teeth, a clean but lumpy face, but the world's worst haircut paired with a too-small Hawaiian shirt. His fanny pack is full of bullets.

"Good. Might be able to profit off you, then. Be a bit of an investment, but this damn invasion is bad for all business, so I got time." He smiles, then, I think it may be the worst thing I've ever seen, "Welcome to the Flinn family, darlin'. Hope you ain't a coward, cause otherwise, this is gonna get real nasty."