I don't wait for Beckett, already running toward the retreating lights. The crew must have fought off the attacking Brights, and again I wonder why they seem so weak.
The exit lands me on a cracking concrete walkway, two steps and I'm running down an asphalt road, the illumination up ahead enough I can see to leap over areas damaged by nature and time. I pass a sign, the name unreadable, not caring anyway where we are or who might have lived here once.
Only Vander matters.
Again hands grasp me, but this time I slow on purpose, the dog tight to my side. The Brights have slowed, the movement of light centralized, still flowing as if they are moving around, but more as if they've gathered in one place, the eddying of light like waves of water above the trees and buildings in the way.
"Car
