Jenny Jorgenson scampered across the rough gas stained concrete toward the Charles Street entrance wondering how far she was going to get when the audio virus invented by that douche bag wonder boy of all mad scientists—Burreese—caused every man’s biological imperative to reproduce with a young woman to bring a world of raging rapists her way.

As she neared the entrance with Mozart blasting her ears to oblivion she felt blind in her deafness. This leant her courage. For if she could hear the insanity—even if somehow she was immune—she would quake. She knew that she was no killer movie chick with a wire, a choreographer and a dozen stuntmen prepared to fall over dead when she flashed her baby blues.

The yellow bar was down and an SUV and a few cars were crowded at the entrance. The two cops were nowhere in sight. As she skittishly pranced around the white Nissan something warm soaked into her stockings. She looked down to see blood soaking up her feet from a widening pool she had just stepped in. She almost hurled, but kept it in and tip toed around the car.

As she turned the corner of the white Nissan SUV she tripped and fell flat on her face. Mozart was silenced for a second but resumed his symphony as she looked around her on a scene that had haunted her dreams for its possibility. As Jenny pushed to her feet she saw that she had tripped over the foot of a woman who had been raped and killed—a little blonde girl—college age. She, and what appeared to be the two cops who had attacked her, were all dead from large caliber head shots.

“I can’t let this go—she can’t have died for nothing. That could have been me—should have been me. I have to get to Burreese. You dumb bitch you’re talking out loud, someone will hear you!”

A report from a handgun cracked through the symphony destroying her eardrums, the windshield before her shattered, and she was off running like a wild woman with blood-soaked stockings out into the pandemonium that was Charles Street. Another report punched through the beautiful noise in her head and luckily she felt nothing.

She ran by a Toyota two-door sedan that was rocking back and forth on a man’s legs, a man who was on his back in the street screaming something as the female driver screamed something else.

She pranced around two Mexicans who were raping an Asian woman on the center line next to her disabled car. She thought about taking the car but it was blocked in. Few cars were moving as the world went insane and people abandoned their vehicles in the middle of rush hour gridlock and descended on one another like fiends at the Feast of the Damned.

Pratt, the perpendicular street, will have traffic moving—a chance at least, she thought to herself.

She ran past a large black man who was repeatedly smashing a small white man’s head into the pavement, chanting some insane mantra.

Jenny was headed for Pratt Street, where traffic was hopefully still running. Of course, a crash up derby might be worse than the zombie mob she was running through, but at least she would have a chance of driving out of town, away from this city gone mad. The virus had been calibrated for urban impact. She knew her best chance was in the countryside.

She picked up her stride as she hit the sidewalk and ran full out, past a linens truck that had flipped over after ploughing through the work crew that had always stopped to whistle in their wide-faced way as she crossed the street for lunch. As she rounded the truck that delivered and picked up uniforms at the area eateries and now had a little pair of booted feet sticking out from under it, she ran square into the remaining members of the crew, seven little Latinos, beating the dead body of the formerly black and now red driver, sprawled lifeless against the underside of the truck.

They all stopped as one and looked at her. Their eyes then lit up with lust as they adopted a brief and easy to understand mantra, that would be clear in any language.

“Oh God!”

“Bitch, you’re an atheist! Out run these runts.”

Confident in her ability to outpace the short, booted and heavily dressed construction workers Jenny sprinted toward Pratt Street, a half block away, flying like Tinker Bell from Captain Hook. Then she heard it pop, her bad ankle, the one that she had sprained dancing on the fireplace coping with her now nameless Latin Lover—his image in her mind’s eye having receded to that of another grasping man of murky face and hollow voice in the rogues gallery of discarded lovers that was her best unremembered past.

Pulling up lame in extreme pain she looked over her shoulder to see the seven little men walking after her as fast as someone with short legs could not run. They were joined by two black guys in thug attire, and a suited white man with a briefcase, all lurching lustfully toward her, chanting something best unheard, one hand extended as if for her full head of flowing natural blonde hair.

She ground her teeth in determination and hobbled as fast as she could, whimpering with every step, toward the street where traffic still moved around, and sometimes over, the struggling figures on foot, back, and on hands and knees like some hideous death race at the end of time.

Jenny neared Pratt Street, mere paces off as she painfully hobbled, her ankle folding under her twice, and tearing to shreds when she forced herself to stay up and continue on. More figures were converging on her from left and right, and some men across the street were leaving off the less attractive women they were chasing, beating, raping or re-killing, to stand up with a wide hungry light in their eyes and fix her fleeing form with a morbid intensity; at once a death wish and a desire to have her.

“Being hot has suddenly lost all of its luster,” she growled between her clenched teeth in an attempt to steady her mind with dark humor. “I’d be an ugly bitch now for all the power in Wasington!”

More than anything, as she came to within two strides of the curb she feared looking about or side to side; feared the realization that all was lost; that her last moments would be spent in helpless, screaming powerlessness.

On she lurched to the curb as one of her new suitors from across the street—and then another—was flattened by a city bus reeling crazily on its way. Then the empty bus stopped as the big black man driving it got a look at her and rose from his seat even as a dozen or so teenage boys—two of them white—let out a series of whoops from across the street and began charging out into traffic to get to her.

“Oh God, is this how it ends?”

Mozart did not answer, and if the God she did not believe in did, she could not hear as the beautiful symphony rupturing her eardrums played on.

Ahead of her were men and boys dying in traffic trying to get to her body.

To her right a dyke and three fat young white men dressed in gothic attire were lurching toward her with lust filled faraway eyes, drool dripping from their pierced lips.

To her left from Light Street marched a tall police officer right toward her, already unzipping his trousers with one hand as he reached toward her with the other.

Behind her, as her ankle throbbed pitifully, she saw a good dozen men of all races and job descriptions—but mostly Latino construction workers—bearing down on her with bulges, large and small, in their pants and far away eyes locked coldly on her as their mouths worked in at least two languages singing their no doubt obscene chants into the air.

“I might be a gold-digging slut but I don’t deserve this!” she shouted defiantly at the horny blood mad mob, as she stepped off the curb into the path of the rumbling dump truck that would mercifully take her up, out, and away from the insane world she had helped conceive.