An extract from the editing this week, from Folio 55: 4659, currently at 59% complete.
“Red has direct line of sight.” Oracle’s never raised voice is in stark contrast to the carnage behind us.
“I can see him.” I confirm the statement. Even as the words leave my mouth, I watch dumbstruck as the projection turns and zigzags towards us, two separate strands from a common root at the base of the tower. They thrust forward, their advances an etch-a-sketch nightmare: on my right, from pedestrian to pedestrian; on my left, from driver to driver in the opposite lane. Catching up with us; passing us.
From the pavement a mid-twenties lover lets go of his girlfriend’s hand for the last time and throws himself in front of our bumper; from the road a small red postal van slams on its brakes and screeches across the tarmac towards our course.
Seraph pulls left to avoid the vehicle but can do nothing about the boyfriend; his body is a thudding blur in front and then a crunched obstacle that rolls free of our behind, its passenger seat now empty.
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