A light at the end of the tunnel. Useful.
Rachel raced down the subterranean passageway towards her salvation, arms pumping, legs thrusting.
Somewhere above, their methodical chants grew louder. She didn’t know who they were. Didn’t want to know either.
The rusted gate was no match for her shoulder as she exploded onto an open field.
Now what?
A rusted red pickup. Hope.
She hopped into the driver’s seat, gave the key a twist. Nothing.
By then, a sea of hooded figures with torches had surrounded the truck.
Rachel closed her eyes. She wanted to scream. But who would hear?
The Weekday One Hundred 