Ten minutes ago, everyone rushed outside.
Hector was the one who woke us up first, but I think I already knew in my sleep. Sort of. I think I can remember the thumping.
Two gray, sleek military helicopters, zoomed into sight from the south, heading south-east.
We ran as fast as we could to the roof, and screamed to try and jar their attention. To make ourselves noticeable.
I think Colin was throwing cans.
But they didn't stop. Or make any sign that they recognized us. The choppers continued their direction and eventually, I couldn't make out the rhythmic thud of the propellers. And then I couldn't make them out at all.
And we stood there on the central building's roof top. Heaving and hoarse. Sean turned and went back downstairs; silent and brooding. Colin looked like he might cry. Henry and Hector seemed speechless. Anna just kept staring in the direction the choppers had gone.
And in the cold morning glare, I have to wonder if we hadn't dreamed the whole thing.
We don't know whether to hope or not. The helicopters could be anything. Maybe the real remains of the government, attempting to re-establish order; control. Maybe just some wack-job survivor's who stumbled upon something cool. Maybe even spies from another country that wasn't completely wiped out, surveying the damage that Freaky unleashed.
And he we are, the survivors. The ones who dare not even fucking hope.
I'm going back to sleep.
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