The World Is Not Ending

There were so many of those men with their ill-fitting skin and yellow polo shirts. Hundreds maybe. I plowed through them and they went flying, landing at horrible angles before I had to break to avoid crashing into the gas station. The mob surrounded the cab, sneering, one who had been hit limped toward me. All of the buildings in the town were covered with a thin film of oil. The whole town looked sticky to the touch. Tied to a streetlight near the gas station was one of the men like all the others. He leaned into the ropes that bound him. Get her! He croaked. His whole body was covered in knife wounds but his