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“Tell me any last requests,
            Before your guts rip out you chest,
            F#ck all that don’t give them nothin’
            Slap his ass and press the button.
            Fair enough another down
            Carnival don’t f#ck around,
            Fire up the tilt-a-whirl,
            And well see you all in hell.”

                Insane Clown Posse, Tilt-A-Whirl

I try not to think about why I’m running. I try not to think at all. When I do think, it’s about my motorcycle. I try to think that I’m on it, like the hallways that are speeding past me are trees that I’m passing as I ride. I imagine I can feel the rumble of the engine, and the roar of its presence. I imagine it’s the motorcycle that’s straining and not me. I imagine that the gasping pain in my chest isn’t the pain to breathe from running, but the fear of the stunt I’m about to pull.

                But I can’t imagine.

                All I can do is run for my life. Because no matter what I imagine, the fact is that monsters are running me down.

                I can hear them behind me. The endless echoes of their rampaging feet sound like a stampede of elephants. And as I run, I can see out of the corner of my eye, as I pass intersections, more of them. I don’t look back. But I know the crowd’s gotten bigger. And I know they’re gaining.

                I try to push faster. I try to push everything I’ve got. I imagine when I was twelve and Andy Sanderson beat me up every day after school. I imagine it’s the day I outran him. I try not to think about the day after, when he broke my arm. I try not to think about the twice as bad beatings I got after that.

                I try not to think about what will happen if I’m caught. I try not to think about their chomping teeth or their ashen skin or their freakish strength.

                I also try not to think about that jaw and fragment of brain that was crawling its way towards me in the chemistry lab.

                I run.

                My legs burn. My arms burn. My chest burns. My mouth burns. I can feel it, the specter of defeat, the twin brother of the angel of death. I can feel my muscles beginning to slow down. I can tell, just barely, the edges of the halls that I pass are starting to go by just a hint slower.

                I realize that I’m going to die.

                For the first time, it hits me. All this time, it hadn’t really registered. But now it has. I’m going to die. These things are going to eat me. I’m going to die at the hands of a crowd of monsters. I always thought I’d die doing some stupid motorcycle stunt, riding with my crew. But no. I’m going to get eaten by rejects from the Night of the Living Dead.

                And then an idea comes to me.

                I plant my foot solidly, coming to a complete stop almost instantly.

                I can hear them closing in with every breath.

                I throw myself instantly to the side and propel myself down a side hallway. I hear skidding and hissing and growling. But I also hear a couple of falls.

                Up ahead, in the far distance, I see more coming at me.

                At the end of the hall, I drive my foot and turn again.

                And then I see it. I see it in all its beauty. I see what I never thought I’d see. I see what I had given up on ever seeing.

                The front door.

                The revolving door, flanked by two regular glass doors, shows outside, to the nighttime world that awaits me. I can almost feel the fresh air that was tempted to me by the garden. I can almost feel salvation.

                And it’s only six intersections away.

                I throw myself forward. I imagine that I’m on my motorcycle. I imagine that I’m running from Andy Sanderson. Every time in my life I have ever perceived of the concept of speed, I summon it up and pour it into my gut. I scream at my legs, begging them to forget the pain and the burning and to simply drive forward with absolutely everything they’ve got.

                Five more.

                I think good form. I sharpen up my arms and my hands, trying in any way to lessen the wind resistance, to speed up my running. I drive forward with absolutely everything I’ve got.

                Four more.

                I can see the receptionist’s desks on either side of the foyer, available warmly to anyone who came in. I can see the street lights reflecting on the glass.

                Three more.

                I can feel the change in the air, the staleness driven back by the breeze from heaven itself outside.

                Two more.

                I can hear them behind me. It sounds like an army.

                One more.

                I don’t register it immediately. It doesn’t really take affect right away, but as I pass by it, I slowly contemplate it in the back of my mind. It’s like seeing an almost complete crossword puzzle while you’re standing in the middle of a blind man’s shooting range. But as I enter the foyer, so painfully close to the glass doors, I see one of the glass panes to my right is smashed. But I don’t see any glass on the floor.

                Which means it was smashed out.

                For the most part, that’s just an intellectual anomaly that I curse myself for thinking about while I’m running for dear life. But as I kick at the glass door’s metal frame, astonished that the door goes flying open, I’m greeted with an astonishing sight.

                And I skid to a halt.

                And they all come to a halt.

                Dozens of them.

                Maybe even a hundred.

                Lab coats and security guards and janitors and receptionists.

                All staring at me.

                All with gray, ashen skin, pulled taut around their faces.

                All staring at me.

                And the realization that I’m going to die smacks me across the face once again with ten times the strength.

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