The fact that Miles was laying face-down in a pool of (hopefully) his vomit, lent some credence to this observation. He couldn't quite remember how he had ended up in this state, but that was nothing new.
"Uhm, you want a drink?" said a disembodied voice somewhere to his left. It said this through what Miles could only assume was some sort of high powered sound amplification device, wired directly into his brain. That is to say...
"Ouch!" replied Miles....though in point of fact it came out more like..."outhpit...gurgle..." Despite the voice's use of sounds of mass destruction, he decided to slowly amble out of his own filth, and see just how likely he was to want a drink.
Lifting his body on shaky arms, watching the former contents of his stomach dripping back down onto the pavement beneath him, Miles thought a drink....might be quite a nice idea indeed. Turning towards what was obviously a giant suffering with Tourette, he discovered a rather small man, disheveled in appearance, with a beard full of stringy white whiskers. A grubby paw was outstretched, contained within, a flask, contents unknown.The man repeated his earlier inquiry. "Want a drink?" His hand lifted the flask inquiringly, shaking it to make the mystery liquid within slosh too and fro....much like the inside of Miles' brain at the moment. "S'good, I promise," added the old man, swiftly followed by an unnerving giggle.
Verticality somewhat setting his mind aright, Miles wiped his sullied face with the back of his hand, and took the flask from the old mans hand. Tipping back his head, he emptied the contents into his mouth, only missing a single drop which splashed into the vomit soaked lawn beneath him.
"Tastes funny, old man. What the hell was that?" inquired Miles, turning towards the old man. An eerie grin was frozen on the geezer's timeworn and quite motionless face. "I asked you what was in the flask, buddy," again, no response. The man was as still as a photograph. Not even the hint of a breeze to disturb the scraggly beard beneath his face.
Anger elbowed Nausea in the face then, winning the war for Miles' emotions, as he reached out a shaky appendage to grab the old man's withered shoulder.
"Yo, Gramps!" intoned Miles. His hand settling firmly on the bony joint, and Miles felt a ripple of electric heat sizzle through his skin. He could see it in the air, as though he had just dropped a stone into a large vertical pond.
Warmth and vitality returned to the wizened old tramp. And though it seemed impossible, the geezer's grin seemed to grow even wider, encompassing nearly the whole lower third of his frankly repulsive visage.
"Ah...something special, that. Woke you right up, didn't it?" the fossil enquired.
Miles was too stunned to speak. He simply stared in horror at the silent world surrounding him. All sound, stopped. No movement to be seen. He was, in point of fact, utterly and completely frozen in a moment of time. Trapped between the ticks of a second, with only the nonsensical ramblings of a madman to comfort him. He turned and ran, the cackling of the old man chasing his every footfall.
Past men and women frozen midstride, he ran. Down alleys cluttered with its immobile indigent occupants, he ran.
Then, he tripped.
Rolling across the rough concrete, skidding into the feet of pedestrians and finally rebounding off the hood of a particularly weather-beaten, 1987 Plymouth Horizon, the second ugliest thing he'd had the displeasure of seeing that morning.
"This," thought Miles, "sucks!"
This also happened to be the moment he noticed that the sound had been turned back on. As it happens, this wasn't a particularly pleasant experience. He could hear screams, and he was pretty sure he heard sirens in there somewhere too. Miles was also fairly certain that if he'd only just open his eyes, he would find that in addition to the sound, life, motion and all that entailed had also been set back on course.
Rolling the dice, he opened his eyes.
A forty foot wide trench was gouged into the concrete where he had just been. Broken bodies and damaged cars lay strewn about. Men and women caught in his path screamed in horror at the sight of their ravaged flesh.
Miles vomited again. This was not his finest hour, to be certain.
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Professor Rudolph Rander, with Grad Student Melissa Majors in tow, sped through the early-morning traffic, in an effort to escape both the civilian authorities and whatever unknown force was threatening their lives.
"Professor, where are we going? We just killed a man." Melissa sat with her head cradled in her hands, quiet sobs occasionally escaping.
"Melissa, Jacob tried to kill both of us. Before that, before you arrived, he alluded to being part of a program. That means there are more of them out there....more people trying to kill us." Rander paused as he steered wildly around a corner, narrowly avoiding the car in front of him. "Getting ourselves arrested would only make their job easier. We need to get away if..."
"Professor, stop."
"Melissa...." Rander began.
"No, Professor....Stop the car. Now!" Melissa screamed and threw one arm in front of her face.
Turning his eyes back towards the road ahead, Rander slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to a screeching halt, mere feet away from the edge of a giant chasm torn through the asphalt. Sirens and screams signaled the extent of the disaster ahead.
"What...?" Rander turned off the engine and stepped out of the car. Taking tentative steps forward, he nearly tripped over the body of a young man. Kneeling down, Rander pulled the boy into a sitting position.
"Young man, what happened, can you tell me what caused this?"
"I...th' drink. What was in it?" the boy's head fell forward. A trickle of radiant silver fluid dripped from the corner of his mouth. Rander's eyes widened when he saw it.
"Unconscious." Turning towards Melissa, who had come to his side, he continued, "Help me get him into the car. Escape plan or not, this boy needs help. He's not going to get it here."
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Professor Rudolph Rander, with Grad Student Melissa Majors in tow, sped through the early-morning traffic, in an effort to escape both the civilian authorities and whatever unknown force was threatening their lives.
"Professor, where are we going? We just killed a man." Melissa sat with her head cradled in her hands, quiet sobs occasionally escaping.
"Melissa, Jacob tried to kill both of us. Before that, before you arrived, he alluded to being part of a program. That means there are more of them out there....more people trying to kill us." Rander paused as he steered wildly around a corner, narrowly avoiding the car in front of him. "Getting ourselves arrested would only make their job easier. We need to get away if..."
"Professor, stop."
"Melissa...." Rander began.
"No, Professor....Stop the car. Now!" Melissa screamed and threw one arm in front of her face.
Turning his eyes back towards the road ahead, Rander slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to a screeching halt, mere feet away from the edge of a giant chasm torn through the asphalt. Sirens and screams signaled the extent of the disaster ahead.
"What...?" Rander turned off the engine and stepped out of the car. Taking tentative steps forward, he nearly tripped over the body of a young man. Kneeling down, Rander pulled the boy into a sitting position.
"Young man, what happened, can you tell me what caused this?"
"I...th' drink. What was in it?" the boy's head fell forward. A trickle of radiant silver fluid dripped from the corner of his mouth. Rander's eyes widened when he saw it.
"Unconscious." Turning towards Melissa, who had come to his side, he continued, "Help me get him into the car. Escape plan or not, this boy needs help. He's not going to get it here."
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