Out

(All the writing in this set was based on dreams. For more info,
please read: 'An Explanation - 25 Dreams'.)

I am the manager of a large department store and I am standing in the
menswear section, feeling all the responsibility of the job, but not
caring for any of it. I run my hands over the shoulders of a few grey
suits while three women I work with in real life are looking at men's
trousers and chatting about their husbands. Their inane banter
depresses me, so when I hear an unusual, scratching sound behind me I
am quick to investigate.

The sound is coming from a cubicle, which I approach slowly until the
scratching stops abruptly.

I unlock the cubicle from the outside and pull open the door.

A man in a suit and glasses tumbles out of the wardrobe-sized cubicle,
flustered, dishevelled and muttering something about a terrorist attack
taking place and having to evacuate the building. It is possible he is
the owner of the department store who I have never seen and I watch him
as he hurries away across the shop floor.

On examining the cubicle door, I can see that it opens fine from the
outside, but a groove has been cut on the inside to prevent the lock
from revolving fully. Suspecting that his ramblings of a terrorist
attack are true, I leave the building. On the way out I pass the three
chatting women. Now they were talking about having babies; two are
saying they are too old, the third is saying her husband had a
vasectomy.

I look behind me and people are flowing out of the building like ants
out of a hole in the ground. I am already a fair distance from the
building and I keep walking, quickly but calmly so as not to draw
attention to myself.

As I look around I see a man in full combat gear, a rifle slung over
one shoulder. Shit. I keep walking, a little more quickly now, hoping
he hasn't seen me. My distance from the crowd might single me out as a
victim.

I duck behind a building and slowly walk to the other side. When I come
out into the open the man in the army gear is walking towards me.

He changed his direction in order to follow.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

I change my direction again, awkwardly and deliberately, to ascertain
whether or not he is really following me, whether or not I should run.
I expect to feel a bullet blow off the back of my head at any second.
The hairs are standing up on the back of my neck.

I turn again and he is right behind me. I am reflected in his shades,
stumbling backwards.

Now the man is accompanied by a second guerrilla, this one in white
combat gear, and between them is a man in a suit, being dragged,
spirited away to an unknown location.

They brush past me with a cursory glance and keep going.

I do too.