I hit ‘play’ and grind the viewfinder: see dark forms rushing the truckdriver, rushing him and piling on, their (tails?) whipping about, and yet nothing is clear, nothing concrete. They’re just forms, just blurry dark streaks, streaks that could be anything.
“Preston—hello?” Sunny is waving her hand in front of me. “Come on, stud, get it together. We need coverage on this.”
I look out the busted window at what appears to be Compton, the wind cooling my face, and see that it’s burning, like everything else. Then I back it up again and hit ‘record,’ erasing everything.
––––––––
Sunny continues: “As far as we have been able to determine, Sam, the western boundary is Crenshaw Avenue, more or less. We are hearing of activity, we have seen some activity as far East as, say, Avalon. And, well
