Free Stage 3: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller by Ken Stark Page A

Burlingame, maybe, or Hillsborough. Maybe even as far away as San Mateo. His car was in the underground garage of his apartment building, but there was no going back there; his trick with the car alarm had seen to that. Other vehicles lay all around, but he had no idea how to break into a car, much less how to hot-wire one. It looked easy enough in the movies, but it would take him time to figure it out, and he doubted he could do either in utter silence. For now, at least, he would have to go it on foot, but he would keep an eye out for a vehicle that might have been left with keys in the ignition.
    He figured he would head generally south, assess each street as he came to it, and decide the actual route as he went. Once he got away from the skyscrapers, the going would have to get easier. And when he got far enough south, then there would a Red Cross nurse with a cup of coffee and a donut, and he'd tell her his horror stories, and she'd tell him how brave he was, and life would eventually get back to normal.
    He got his bearings, did an about face, and struck a barely acceptable bargain between speed and stealth as he set off south.
    He passed through the intersection without incident, then he stopped and surveyed the way ahead. He could see eight creatures in the next block; some feeding and others standing vigil; waiting, listening. He considered bypassing the street, but the next block wasn't likely to be any better. In fact, these numbers might very well be as good as it got until he got out of the skyscrapers.
    Christ…. he sighed gloomily, This is gonna be a seriously looong day……
    He wondered if there might be some better way to travel. Of course a car would be optimum, but  that eventuality aside, there had to be something less dangerous than slogging through the city on foot. He thought briefly about the rooftops, but without webshooters or Batman's grapple gun, the entire notion was ridiculous. But wait…..if he couldn't travel above the street, maybe he could travel below it. Now here was a real possibility. There were subways all the way from the financial district, down to Daly City, and south to the airport. Surely that would be far enough to find his Red Cross girl with the donut. 
    Sadly, he could already see one major problem with the idea. The subways would have their own share of crazies— Hell, they always had their share of crazies! he Mason acknowledged with a wry smirk,  but those crazies were in a hole in the ground. With no quick escape routes out and little room to maneuver, those tunnels would quickly become a grave.
    But the BART system wasn't the only subterranean highway in a metropolitan city. What about the sewers? They literally crisscrossed all of San Francisco. Sure, it would mean wading through filth, and the air was bound to be rank, but it was sure to be a damn-sight better than inching his way through city streets. And what were the chances of coming across a homicidal nutcase in a sewer?
    The more Mason considered the idea, the more sense it made. There was a manhole cover a dozen steps away from where he was, so he padded lightly over to it and crouched low. There were little gaps along the edge meant for a specialized tool, but he figured he could pry up the lid if he could find a crowbar or metal rod. With this in mind, he scanned the area and let his mind work. A hardware store was what he needed, but this neighborhood was all residential. The few storefronts in this area were all coffee shops and bodegas and newsstands and flower shops. But there were vehicles everywhere, so how about a tire iron? Every car would have a spare tire and jack cozied up in the trunk, and right beside those would be a tire iron. But such a notion made him return to his earlier dilemma; how does one break into a car without making a breath of sound?
    Just then, he became aware of a shuffling from behind. A young man in bloodied coveralls was crossing the street toward him, not at a run, but