It was strange, being out. Whether it was all in my mind or I was actually outside, there were no physical limits to where I could go. No walls to keep me inside. No doctors to stop me running or shouting or rolling on the floor.
As messed up as the world was, what with the destroyed buildings, dead people and flaming skies, it was much better than St. Barton's any day of the week. And a hell of a lot better than St. Barton's on soup Wednesday.
As much fun as it all was though, I had to find some sort of camp or shelter. Maybe even someone else who survived. I was starting to think this was more than a hallucination. I'd pinched myself a hundred times, and I didn't recognise any of the surroundings or places. And even if it was some kind of Hell, I'd still need shelter of some kind.
I checked out a few of the houses with open doors. The state of the food in the fridges and the meals on the side left me with the feeling I must have been unconscious for longer than I'd previously thought. I found it strange that I wasn't hungry either, but I wasn't going to complain. No food was better than forced food and IV drips. One house had posters for some boy band wearing really bad clothes. Like, sweater vests and bow-tie combos going on. They had clean threads in the drawers that fit though; loose fitting khaki shorts and a slightly too big white tee. A tea-towel served as a perfect face mask to keep most of the dust out of my mouth.
I set off again, slightly more comfortably. The remains of a city were outlined on the horizon, so I set off in that direction. More people means more chance for survivors. Or something like that.
Either way, I was going that way.