1:14
Above
restraint the tides of sorrow rise…
A
new wave of panic washes over the necropolis. Someone has pulled
the fire alarm that now drones a perfidious warning. Bong… bong…
bong… it’s a death march ringing down the stacks.
I
lift my head. At the end of the classics, a young woman: strawberry
blond, wearing blue jeans and a tee-shirt trips as she tries to
escape and now frozen on her hands and knees, remains terrified.
She’s all blubbery with tears and snot and her face is twisted out
of shape with the dread of death. Out in the open, vulnerable and
unprotected, she fails to take flight. On the brink of a blank
oblivion, I envision an untimely grave and my heart reaches out to
her, willing her to wake-up from her stupor and hide.
Thankfully
the gods afford her a peculiar grace. A young man darting out from
beneath a study cubicle scoops up the girl. He pulls her along and
together they stumble towards the stairwell, disappearing down stairs
towards safety.
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