The government is dead. Chaos is all that is left. And the days are numbered.
A swarm of lights penetrated the heavy black, jolting the man violently awake. He scrambled to his knees while his eyes contracted and expanded, trying to cope with that explosive white shining. While the Jeeps flew over the sloping grass, the man who was unconscious a second ago finally tried to run in a shambling lope--his left leg was bloody and weak-looking. The man with the mangled leg was blinded and still trying to escape those vicious headlights; his mouth dry, his mind rolling. A heavy wind picked up, and a fluttering, directionless newspaper saved his poor life. Just as the Jeeps stopped and their horrible passengers emerged, the man was hit by the newspaper--which, twenty-three days ago, was read innocently by a wealthy businessman who is now lying dead in a closet--which spread across his face and blocked his vision. In that one moment of confusion he rammed into a telephone pole and fell down, rolling down at a steep incline to a clearing in the brush. The man with the swollen leg fell unconscious for a second time; however, this time he would not awake for anotherthree days. By then, the Windrunners would have killed almost everyone in Valley Park, and various raptors would be the only sign of life.
He awoke again on the second of January. He was a fugitive. But he didn't stop.
Immediately, he went back to work. Time was short.