cross between a crab and a scorpion and a lobster.
The vast majority of these attempted breaches occur in the Mid-Atlantic region of the United States. The general populace remain blissfully unaware of them, but not so the Exit. He knows all about them, and what’s more, he knows why they’re happening. The culprit is the Interstate Highway System. With a total length of forty-seven thousand, seven hundred and fourteen miles, it is the second longest highway system in the world, exceeded only by one in China. As originally designed, it was supposed to be in the shape of an ancient and extremely complex magical glyph, but that never happened because two of the original interstates, I-95 and I-70, have missing interchanges that were never completed. Because the highway system—and thus the glyph—isn’t contiguous, the walls of reality are thin in the Mid-Atlantic region.
And that is why the Exit kills. It has nothing to do with his childhood or his mental health. He kills because sealing off a breach and turning an entrance into an exit requires a sacrifice. Whenever he senses that a breach is about to occur anywhere in Pennsylvania, Maryland, New Jersey, Delaware, Virginia, or West Virginia, he goes there to stop it, and the only way to prevent something like that from happening is with blood. He kills because he has to. He kills because it was the only way to save the lives of everyone else. He kills because it is his job.
He’s not crazy. If he was crazy then his stomach wouldn’t be churning right now, and he wouldn’t be so short of breath, as his tires crunch over a naked man who, only seconds ago, had been swinging a sledgehammer at the hood of his car.
He’d first noticed something was wrong upon exiting Interstate 83 and taking the ramp onto Route 30 in York. Dozens of emergency vehicles rushed past, on their way to elsewhere. Then, he’d spotted several fires—two residences engulfed in flames and a fire burning at the old Caterpillar plant. Finally, while driving along Route 24 through Manchester, he’d spotted a woman standing along the side of the road, clutching a knife and staring intently at the passing traffic. But, unlike the people here in the parking lot of the Pine Village Apartment Complex, she hadn’t been naked.
He had avoided checking his phone, because he was a stickler about not getting pulled over and not causing an accident. Stupidity led to being caught, and being caught wasn’t something that he—or the world—could afford. He’d tried the local radio stations, but all of them were playing prerecorded, syndicated shows, except for WSBA, which curiously, seemed to be off the air. But as more police cars rushed past him, he’d wondered if there were even any units available for speed traps and traffic control tonight.
He made it home without further incident. Then, as he’d pulled into the parking lot at the complex, looking forward to curling up on the couch in his apartment and perhaps reading a book for a little while before bed, he’d seen the mob—dozens and dozens of crazed, nude people swarming the grounds and attacking the residents of the complex. They kicked in doors and crawled through broken windows, and carried a bizarre array of weaponry. They kicked, clubbed, and hacked a man lying on the sidewalk, and held a woman in place while another among their ranks slammed the dumpster door against her head over and over again. They shot a wailing child and stabbed a fleeing teenager. They glared, snarled, and sneered at him, illuminated in his headlights as he slowed to a halt.
The Exit paused, running through his options as the mob converged toward him, acting almost as one. His knife and the rest of his tools were in the trunk, so the Exit used the only weapon he had available. Easing his foot off the brake, he pressed the accelerator and slammed into the crowd.
Now, he’s made it halfway across the complex, just passing by Building C, and the crowd hasn’t
The vast majority of these attempted breaches occur in the Mid-Atlantic region of the United States. The general populace remain blissfully unaware of them, but not so the Exit. He knows all about them, and what’s more, he knows why they’re happening. The culprit is the Interstate Highway System. With a total length of forty-seven thousand, seven hundred and fourteen miles, it is the second longest highway system in the world, exceeded only by one in China. As originally designed, it was supposed to be in the shape of an ancient and extremely complex magical glyph, but that never happened because two of the original interstates, I-95 and I-70, have missing interchanges that were never completed. Because the highway system—and thus the glyph—isn’t contiguous, the walls of reality are thin in the Mid-Atlantic region.
And that is why the Exit kills. It has nothing to do with his childhood or his mental health. He kills because sealing off a breach and turning an entrance into an exit requires a sacrifice. Whenever he senses that a breach is about to occur anywhere in Pennsylvania, Maryland, New Jersey, Delaware, Virginia, or West Virginia, he goes there to stop it, and the only way to prevent something like that from happening is with blood. He kills because he has to. He kills because it was the only way to save the lives of everyone else. He kills because it is his job.
He’s not crazy. If he was crazy then his stomach wouldn’t be churning right now, and he wouldn’t be so short of breath, as his tires crunch over a naked man who, only seconds ago, had been swinging a sledgehammer at the hood of his car.
He’d first noticed something was wrong upon exiting Interstate 83 and taking the ramp onto Route 30 in York. Dozens of emergency vehicles rushed past, on their way to elsewhere. Then, he’d spotted several fires—two residences engulfed in flames and a fire burning at the old Caterpillar plant. Finally, while driving along Route 24 through Manchester, he’d spotted a woman standing along the side of the road, clutching a knife and staring intently at the passing traffic. But, unlike the people here in the parking lot of the Pine Village Apartment Complex, she hadn’t been naked.
He had avoided checking his phone, because he was a stickler about not getting pulled over and not causing an accident. Stupidity led to being caught, and being caught wasn’t something that he—or the world—could afford. He’d tried the local radio stations, but all of them were playing prerecorded, syndicated shows, except for WSBA, which curiously, seemed to be off the air. But as more police cars rushed past him, he’d wondered if there were even any units available for speed traps and traffic control tonight.
He made it home without further incident. Then, as he’d pulled into the parking lot at the complex, looking forward to curling up on the couch in his apartment and perhaps reading a book for a little while before bed, he’d seen the mob—dozens and dozens of crazed, nude people swarming the grounds and attacking the residents of the complex. They kicked in doors and crawled through broken windows, and carried a bizarre array of weaponry. They kicked, clubbed, and hacked a man lying on the sidewalk, and held a woman in place while another among their ranks slammed the dumpster door against her head over and over again. They shot a wailing child and stabbed a fleeing teenager. They glared, snarled, and sneered at him, illuminated in his headlights as he slowed to a halt.
The Exit paused, running through his options as the mob converged toward him, acting almost as one. His knife and the rest of his tools were in the trunk, so the Exit used the only weapon he had available. Easing his foot off the brake, he pressed the accelerator and slammed into the crowd.
Now, he’s made it halfway across the complex, just passing by Building C, and the crowd hasn’t
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