lessened. If anything, there seem to be more of them. One of the naked people bludgeons his driver’s side door with a fire extinguisher while another knocks out one of his headlights with a rock. The car shakes and rattles, being struck from all sides, but he keeps his foot on the gas, knowing that if he stops now, he’ll be dead. He swerves and veers, clipping as many of them as he can while simultaneously trying not to run over a large mass of attackers, lest he get stuck.
He bears down on a man with a gun looming in his lone headlight. The man looks like a bodybuilder, all six-pack abs and swollen bulges, and his naked skin shines with sweat. He raises the gun as the Exit plows into him. There’s a flash and then a boom, but the gun is pointed upward as the weightlifter disappears beneath the front bumper. The car bounces up and down, the shocks groaning in protest, and then begins to shudder as the man gets caught on the undercarriage. The Exit gives it more gas and glances in the rearview mirror long enough to see the wet, red stain he’s leaving in the car’s wake. Worse is the sound the body makes as it is scraped along the pavement. He can hear it even though the windows are closed and the people outside are howling. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard a more horrendous sound. It reminds him of wet Velcro.
As he reaches Building D, he spots a large group of assailants trying to break into apartment 1-D—where the writer lives. More naked figures fill the parking lot. Several of them are clustered around the clothed body of a young man lying next to a U-Haul truck. As the Exit runs down a woman armed with a baseball bat, he sees a young girl of about seven or eight years of age pick up the corpse’s severed right arm. Raising it over her head, she laughs gleefully, and then runs toward the car, as if intending to bash in his windshield with the grisly appendage.
The Exit spins the steering wheel, knocking her over with the front bumper, and then swerves to avoid another oncoming cluster of attackers. He realizes he needs to think quickly. The parking lot ends just beyond his building, terminating into woodlands and an alleyway to the right. The alley is unreachable because there are trees and saplings between it and the parking lot. He fights to stay calm, but feels the panic welling up inside of him. The roof buckles as someone clambers onto the top of the car.
“That won’t do.”
He cranks the wheel hard to the left, and the car shimmies as what is left of the bodybuilder’s corpse slides out from underneath it. He sees a naked teenaged boy tumble off the side of the car, arms flailing. The kid’s arm snaps as he hits the pavement. Then, the Exit aims for the hillside. There is just enough room for his car to fit between the stairs and Building C. He is glad the weightlifter isn’t there anymore, because he feels the undercarriage rubbing against the grass. He glances to his right at the crowd breaking into the apartment, and one particular individual catches his attention. Standing behind the others is the most obese man the Exit has ever seen—so overweight that he almost seems like a caricature, as if his girth were the result of Hollywood special effects. The man’s face is split in a wide, garish grin, and his head tilts back and forth—tick, tock, tick, tock. The effect is almost mesmerizing.
Then, the car is barreling down the hill and the man vanishes from sight, and the Exit turns his attention back to the windshield and shouts in surprise.
He hits the bottom of the hill with such force that his chest is driven into the steering wheel. The pain is immense, almost blinding. Gasping for breath, the Exit struggles to keep the car moving. It seems to want to go in all four directions at once. It careens to the right, narrowly missing the bottom of the cement stairs. The tires dig furrows into the grass.
The backyard is also filled with naked people, but there are not nearly as many as
He bears down on a man with a gun looming in his lone headlight. The man looks like a bodybuilder, all six-pack abs and swollen bulges, and his naked skin shines with sweat. He raises the gun as the Exit plows into him. There’s a flash and then a boom, but the gun is pointed upward as the weightlifter disappears beneath the front bumper. The car bounces up and down, the shocks groaning in protest, and then begins to shudder as the man gets caught on the undercarriage. The Exit gives it more gas and glances in the rearview mirror long enough to see the wet, red stain he’s leaving in the car’s wake. Worse is the sound the body makes as it is scraped along the pavement. He can hear it even though the windows are closed and the people outside are howling. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard a more horrendous sound. It reminds him of wet Velcro.
As he reaches Building D, he spots a large group of assailants trying to break into apartment 1-D—where the writer lives. More naked figures fill the parking lot. Several of them are clustered around the clothed body of a young man lying next to a U-Haul truck. As the Exit runs down a woman armed with a baseball bat, he sees a young girl of about seven or eight years of age pick up the corpse’s severed right arm. Raising it over her head, she laughs gleefully, and then runs toward the car, as if intending to bash in his windshield with the grisly appendage.
The Exit spins the steering wheel, knocking her over with the front bumper, and then swerves to avoid another oncoming cluster of attackers. He realizes he needs to think quickly. The parking lot ends just beyond his building, terminating into woodlands and an alleyway to the right. The alley is unreachable because there are trees and saplings between it and the parking lot. He fights to stay calm, but feels the panic welling up inside of him. The roof buckles as someone clambers onto the top of the car.
“That won’t do.”
He cranks the wheel hard to the left, and the car shimmies as what is left of the bodybuilder’s corpse slides out from underneath it. He sees a naked teenaged boy tumble off the side of the car, arms flailing. The kid’s arm snaps as he hits the pavement. Then, the Exit aims for the hillside. There is just enough room for his car to fit between the stairs and Building C. He is glad the weightlifter isn’t there anymore, because he feels the undercarriage rubbing against the grass. He glances to his right at the crowd breaking into the apartment, and one particular individual catches his attention. Standing behind the others is the most obese man the Exit has ever seen—so overweight that he almost seems like a caricature, as if his girth were the result of Hollywood special effects. The man’s face is split in a wide, garish grin, and his head tilts back and forth—tick, tock, tick, tock. The effect is almost mesmerizing.
Then, the car is barreling down the hill and the man vanishes from sight, and the Exit turns his attention back to the windshield and shouts in surprise.
He hits the bottom of the hill with such force that his chest is driven into the steering wheel. The pain is immense, almost blinding. Gasping for breath, the Exit struggles to keep the car moving. It seems to want to go in all four directions at once. It careens to the right, narrowly missing the bottom of the cement stairs. The tires dig furrows into the grass.
The backyard is also filled with naked people, but there are not nearly as many as
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