The man on the television is speaking. Graphics and large, red letters. Crisis. The words are incomprehensible. Meaningless. Snappy suit, hundred-dollar hair, confident smile barely masking his own terror, as he gives the instructions he was instructed to give. But they are contradictory: Stay inside. Flee the city. Don’t worry. Be careful. Stay off the streets. Stockpile food. Don’t panic. Run. Just run.
The words don’t matter. The message is what’s important here: the news is still on. The media is still showing you pictures of what’s happening. Everything will be okay, because Mr. Trusted News Man, with his suit and tie and hair and million-dollar smile is still sitting behind his giant desk, his perky co-anchor by his side, the wacky weatherman posted in front of the map, the concerned-looking reporter out on the street -- your very own eyes and ears on the situation. Everything is under control. It’s bad, but it’s not that bad. It’s not that bad because you’re watching it on TV.
The flower shop owner on Tenth and Main is chaining his door, but a Silver -- a clone -- spots him and is on top of him before he can rush back inside. The screams are as heartbreaking as they are horrifying, but mercifully quick as the tissue of his throat is torn and consumed.
The cop across the street is less fortunate. Maybe a rookie, or maybe he’s been there awhile, but whatever the case, he can’t decide where to aim before he finds himself in the middle of a tug-of-war between four different donors. His screams last an eternity.
But this is all on TV.
And if you’re watching it on TV, it can’t possibly be happening right outside your window.
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